One cannot hold onto old winters
the snow has already fallen
the grass already turned to a faded brown
the leaves a season before had begun to fall over our shod feet
and dark green sweaters which covered our hidden heart
the rain had already come down in puddles outside our windows and doors
as we sat with wine and cigarettes and poetry for only ourselves.

We cannot hold onto seasons past
of wet hair from dancing in the rain outside the Underground
in front of fountains and under the Southern night;
of wondrous drives through mountains and cafes and coffee
overlooking the North Carolina mountaintops
as the steam floated over the gardens;
of walking the stone cathedrals silently
and planning a future lost in their labyrinths.