The Season Of His Birth Poem by Frank Avon
The Season Of His Birth
has been a season of grief.
Always, it is so,
I suppose.
Death takes no holidays,
does not fold his broad wings
nor spare
what they enclose.
Death could not stop for these
Twelve Days,
for still he must make his call
on those we know.
And so
(though we believe) ,
in this His Season
still we grieve.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: grief
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4/23/2024 10:05:48 PM # 1.0.0.1119
