Ask me in December

Ask me in December,

when the ground frozen and the tress dead.

Ask me then about hope,

when the bone-chilling cold of midnight has taken hold with its tight grip,

Ask me then.

Ask me in January,

when aspirations are high and the taste of champagne lingers on the lip.

Ask me then about hope,

when the anticipation of what is to come consumes us with unrivaled optimism.

Ask me then.

Ask me in May,

when the sun is warm and the flowers are beautiful.

Ask me then about hope,

when life is new and fresh.

Ask me then.

Ask me in September,

when the harvest is bountiful and the foliage dizzying in its beauty.

Ask me then about hope,

when drinks are warm and the air crisp and clean.

Ask me then.

Ask me in December,

when the days are short and our tasks long.

When we fight minute by agonizing minute,

our fingers broken and cracked,

when spirits are broken and we beg for respite,

when the nights are longest

and the cold at its most bitter.

Ask me in December,

when the clock is winding down,

when we must confront the steady march of time

and the anticipation is long since dashed, crushed under the harsh boot of reality,

the flowers are dead and gone,

the leaves of color fallen and buried never to be seen again.

Ask me then.

Ask me in December

when the bleakest nights give way to the warmest memories,

when the endless repetition of thankless tasks performed in utter darkness provide us with deepest meaning,

when the road ahead is winding and treacherous,

when the burden of the journey already travelled weighs heavy,

Ask me then about hope,

And I’ll tell you all about it.