like arthritis in old age

like arthritis in old age, you hurt me more in winter
ghostly, you rise from carefully interred ashes
mocking the sensible epitaphs i surround you with
smiling radiantly, just out of reach
calling to mind balmy Mediterranean winds
or cosy armchairs and beloved books

a snatch of remembered cheer courses through memory
making me frantically seek you in old emails, old blog posts, old pictures
a snatch of you, and hope, and daily joy
which would warm me like mulled wine on a cold December day
as the happiest year of my life

dies

[this is mostly fiction.]