Winter's Lament

I wonder if it’s sunny in Paris
or like here, are the streets
clogged with snow?

Are lovers caressing on the banks
of the Seine, or is a chill wind
the only embrace felt?

Do flowers bloom in window boxes
or have they been crushed
beneath winter's icy blanket?

Does music ring through the streets
carried on a warm breeze
or is crying the only sound?

Are bodies writhing beneath silken sheets
as night descends, or do people
mourn over lost youth?

Can a place in fantasy be our paradise
or is fantasy
better left alone?