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Wintermoon
©1994
Gilbert Belmudez
Reflecting . . .
Wintermoon is dedicated to a friend who made a difference during a time
of personal pain and emotional growth.
It would also become the last time I would ever see her. A year
and a half later, she was found dead of an overdose at 21 years of age.
The imagery is purposeful. Each word sending a message of personal
battles that many have yet to win.
Sharing the love that friendships have,
she let me in her hidden room.
And sheltered me from agony
the night that came my Wintermoon.
December cold crept all about
and like the temptress of legends past,
it cried in vein to be let in
but on this night the warmth would last.
There was no fear when I lay near
to kiss her cheek and bid "goodnight".
Two friendships true in friendship's trust,
there were no wrongs and all was right.
Her fragrance calmed my tired mind.
In my senses it settled deep.
Like chamomile when brewed to tea,
it soothed the stress and brought me sleep.
Outside, the wind began to howl
as life struggled against the door.
The weak lay scattered, frozen stiff..
The strong trenched in to battle more.
The night grew long as victims groaned
and prayed the cold would pass them by.
Life and death should not be choices
but there were those who choose to die.
From far horizons came relief
as dawn approached to end the war.
To claim its place upon the throne
dusk had taken the night before.
Battered warriors, cold and bitten,
renewed their strength in warm sun rays.
The fighting ceased with night's retreat.
Peace prevailed with sun filled days.
I often think of that dear friend
who out of love did take me in.
I think of her on winter nights
temptation tries to offer sin.
She bore the scars of such a fight
and knew the pain that makes one writhe.
With just a touch it kills the warmth
and takes from one the will to live.
Why then did she go out this time
and leave the safety of her room?
Why then did she not think of me
the night that came her Wintermoon?
Why did she discard all caution
and step into where others lay?
With no weapon to protect her,
the blows of death then had their way.
Perhaps there are tempting moments
when even warriors become weak.
Their minds play tricks and eyes lose sight.
They lose their faith when all looks bleak.
They let the cold into their veins
where feeding frenzies then take place
as evil's hunger has it's fill
‘til all is gone without a trace.
I lock the door those winter nights
I hear the cold that creeps about.
It clamors loud to be let in
and offers love that reeks with doubt.
How many then will fall again
and meet the maker of their doom?
How many men will cower then
from what become their Wintermoon?
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