The Turning Wheel

At journey’s close
Where labor does stop,
Youth’s growth
In Winter’s gleam

The air altered
No more tears’ burden
But fresh and stark
Like ice-covered meads.

Long and weighty
Those years past.

The days, scorching
Heavy as the smith’s fire
Despair and foolishness
An endless run.

Now as flames recede
Fresh challengers appear,
Wild they may be
Yet hope endures,

Like piercing breath.