Homeokeimenon Poem by Noah Smits

I will not let this winter chill me to my core
in spite of icy gusts that shake my cabin door
and threaten boldly with their cold
to whisk me back to days of old
where rash desire's cannon fire wrapped our world in heinous war—
I will not let this winter chill me to my core.

I will not let this summer scorch me with its heat
although the easiest refreshment is Defeat
whose crooked eyes and grinning face
lust after victims to embrace
and turn their humble faiths to huddled wraiths, exhausted and effete—
I will not let this summer scorch me with its heat.

I will not let this autumn strip me of my wit
because it's tempting me (more than I should admit)
to throw my hands up with a scoff
and let my speech become the cough
of the decrepit man whose petulance flies virulent as spit—
I will not let this autumn strip me of my wit.

I will not let this winter chill me to my core
with nights that drag and days that fade at half past four;
there is a warmth that dwells within
and permeates out to the skin
so in this tundra still abundant is the hope I have in store—
I will not let this winter chill me to my core.