Oh winter, I can’t decide,
if I love you, or it’s hate from my side.
Maybe somewhere in-between.
and why is so, you would ask very keen.
This is a dilemma I face throughout the year,
keep thinking about you before you come,
and can’t help but only miss you later.
I love your mornings,
chilly winds that wander so bold.
When you come, you make everything cozy,
colorful sweaters, warmth of tea and cheeks rosy.
I love holding the hot cup of soup, wrapped up in quilt,
sleeping till late, while the sun struggles, without any guilt.
The fuzziness and the mess of layers,
socks and gloves all over, no one cares.
You make everything warmer and more comforting,
afternoons under sun, early evenings and the book I am reading.
But in the long dark nights still as death,
when I say something, the house echos.
everything more palpable, even to myself I feel more close.
The foggy stillness seems singing something bitter-sweet,
teaseful snuggling, the smell of fire and its caressing heat.
But there are also things I hate about you,
the storm of nostalgia that comes with you too.
The flashbacks come crashing as the winds get chilly,
gripping memories that won’t leave my mind free.
As the sunlight gets cold & pale,
and the roots of nostalgia deeper.
I can’t help but miss all those days,
when I thought no time could ever be happier.
That world within our school and the herd of friends,
that we thought as something, that never ends.
Shenanigans around trees, rollcalls and salutations,
sneaking a gaze while crossing paths, saying through eyes all emotions.
Oh winter, you remind me of everything that was loved and gone,
rendezvous of evenings, chatterings of noons and those days of longing I fawn.
It seems the memories I have made year after year,
they all come with you, my heart to sear.
The nostalgia is painful and the distress it causes,
it’s like that heartache a lover hopes never pauses.
Oh winter, I love you so much,
that like you, there’s no weather such.
But I have my accusations and conflicts with you too,
still I wait for you every year and won’t stop missing you.
Come next year, with excitement and the glooms,
the soggy mornings, heartbroken sun and new blooms.
When you come again, I will write another poetry,
to mark all smiles, laughters and moments turned history.