Still.

It lingers, it stays
It does not go away
The winter chill in spring
The numbness and the sting.

It stirs, it calls
The rise and the fall
It grabs from within
The promises, the sin.

It waits, it appears
The months and the years
The ebb and the flow
Of where it must go.

It comes but it goes
And nobody knows
Be still.
At will.