This is a collection of my work across the seasons, each piece reflecting a different aspect of my life at the time, or capturing the spirit of the season itself. I began this poetic journey during COVID, and I’m excited to share it with you. Some of these poems are hard to read back; others bring me immense joy. I hope they do the same for you. Thank you for stopping by.
— Kenzie
Chapter One: Winter
|Solitude|
Solitude can be quiet
or deafeningly loud.
It can be rising steam
from freshly brewed tea
fogging a sunlit window.
It can be tear-stained temples
pressing through cotton pillows.
It can be stepping in time
with music in your ears,
scuffing pavement with purpose.
It can be the hum of the air conditioner
cutting through the dark.
Solitude can be paper cuts
and laundry days,
endless scrolling
and bruised feelings.
It can be boisterous laughter.
It can be silent cries.
Solitude can be mine
or I can be Solitude’s.
|Winter Love|
Her laughs were bubbles,
floating and popping in the air;
melancholic, melodic,
music to his ears.
They reminded him of wintertime:
alone, yet together,
safe from the cold
but not from the weather
That tested their patience
walls closing in.
But then she would laugh,
and he’d grow calm again.
Then summer came,
and they drifted apart.
Who knew the heat
could pull hearts away?
Their love was like ice,
when all said and done,
solid and sure in the winter,
melted and gone
in the sun.
|Winter Night|
The night is patient,
quiet like a church
emptied of its congregants.
Fresh powder lines the city streets,
illuminated by the soft glow of lamplights,
twinkling bulbs wrapped festively
around their slender stalks.
The neighborhood glows, save for a few homes
clinging to their humbuggery, or the stragglers who missed
their chance to pack up last season’s cheer.
Above us, snow falls steady,
whispering promises of a morning spent beneath the covers.
The chill bites at pink noses peeking over wool scarves,
which catch the ghost of each exhale within their threads.
The wind urges:
go back inside,
but still, we wander deeper into the night.
Birdsong has gone silent for the season,
and voices grow hushed along snow-laden ground.
The only sound in our solitary wonderland:
the crisp crunch of snow beneath our boots.
A line of trees stands sentinel,
bare limbs cloaked in white, like the outstretched arms
of a veiled bride reaching for her love.
How can something so lifeless
feel so alive, so frigid,
yet impossibly warm?
I turn to you, and notice
the snowflakes gathering
on your lashes.
|Fighting|
Beneath the ice, with nowhere to go,
her hands bleed as they search frantically for escape
met only by an unyielding sheet of cold.
She’s slipping,
fading slowly
as the water claims her,
limb by limb.
And yet, despite the peril,
she marvels at the view
submerged,
but still looking toward the sun.
Maybe if I were stronger, she thinks,
I could break the ice,
bask in that light.
But I’m down here…
and they say the blessed are up there.
Still, the sunlight calls.
So she fights:
nails clawing,
fists pounding,
legs kicking.
Maybe one day,
she’ll break through.
|Transcendent|
Although your time has expired
and your touch has turned cold
There’s no place you can go
where I cannot follow
Our love is capable, our love is strong
It pushes through rocky terrain and chilly waters
It flies from my heart like a hatchling from its nest
But it’s never gone, it transcends
|Melancholy|
The hues of life
once shimmered bright,
in golden days
now lost to night.
Those good ol’ times,
a sweet, soft lie,
where summers stretched
beneath the blue sky.
Songs held meaning,
hearts beat warmer,
holidays rang
with love’s old murmur.
The grass felt softer,
neighbors kinder,
and time itself
moved slow, yet finer.
Nothing could beat
the crackling glow
of fire-kissed s’mores
in moonlight’s throw.
But we mustn’t get lost
in the heartbeat of yesteryear
because soon the present
will no longer be here.
|Endings|
Flowers wilt against the changing season
relational ties can sever, without reason
strong, bold hands can wither away
while many things come, they never stay
Some endings may be happy,
while others, bittersweet and sad
we can learn a great deal from endings
but should never dwell on what we had
And instead, look toward the future
where there are new beginnings to celebrate
for with the ending of every story
there is a budding adventure lying in wait
|Perceive|
When you look at me,
what do you see:
a graceful, majestic creature,
or just a busy little worker bee?
Do your eyes pause on my presence,
or pass by like a breeze through trees?
Do I linger in your thoughts like music,
or vanish like whispers on the sea?
How I wish I could see myself
through the mirror of your eyes,
to know if I shine like moonlight
or disappear with the sun’s rise.
Am I this grotesque, misshapen thing,
clumsy with too many parts,
or a strange and stirring beauty
that tears hearts apart?
Tell me truly, if you dare,
strip the mask, drop the guise,
do I stand as something real
or just a flicker behind your eyes?
I stand here waiting, silent and still,
with hope and hesitation, too.
I ask again, with trembling voice,
“What am I to you?”
|Being|
Every year, I change
who I want to be,
left with scars
from the skin
I’ve torn off of me.
Thousands of faces,
thousands of lives,
we throw different voices
but share the same eyes.
Each woman, each life
is a suit I’ve worn,
but I’m still not certain
which one to adorn.
I could be a mother,
but I fear I’d disappear,
lose my sense of self,
never fully here.
I could be a runner,
but where would I go,
all this love,
to whom would I bestow?
I don’t know who I am,
and I doubt they do either.
Should I bare my heart,
or finally cut the tether?
It’s easier, I think,
to run, to hide,
but what’s truly brave
is to reveal what’s inside.
|A Regretful Winter Evening|
I think of that night
more often than I should,
a cold winter evening
I’d forget, if I could.
But how can I,
when it’s etched so deep,
a memory I visit
even in sleep?
I want to be there,
in that row, beside you,
wine on our tongues,
just us two.
The music swelled,
but my heart beat louder
as I stole glances,
drawn to your power.
Your hand was open,
quietly pleading,
but I turned away,
too scared, hesitating.
Tears shone in your eyes,
and mine would’ve fit
so perfectly
in the warmth of it.
I felt so lucky,
you, finally near;
a moment alone
that might not reappear.
you sat like a king,
serene, unspoken,
but midnight struck,
and the spell was broken.
Oh, how I wish
that night never ceased.
But wishes fade,
and so did the feast.
Now, I must face
what I tried to pretend:
you were never mine,
only ever a friend.
|“I Don’t Know.”|
There’s a fear that begins at creation,
a thought that ignites frustration,
a phrase lost in noise across the nation:
“I don’t know.”
It’s humbling, to say the least,
to admit what feels like defeat.
So we soothe our pride,
repeat the cheat:
“I know.”
We craft opinions on command,
each hot-button issue, neatly planned.
And when asked to take a stand:
“I know.”
But there’s no shame in admitting
when a puzzle piece isn’t fitting.
True wisdom lies in simply submitting:
“I don’t know.”
|Final Wish|
Time-weathered skin, sallow under fluorescent lighting.
Breathing shallow, pale eyes glazed over;
visions of somewhere sunny flash across glassy blues.
Four walls reeking of antiseptic.
Cold. Heartless. Concrete.
She doesn’t want to die here.
She longs to slip away in her garden,
her favorite book lying open on her lap.
The words “Until death, it is all life”
gaze up at her as she fades from the waking world,
frail, vein-threaded hands forever poised to turn the page.
She thinks:
If my end is near, why not let me wither in the comfort of my own home?
Or let me entwine with the roots of my parents’ maple tree,
to swing from its strong branches for eternity.
Who will mourn me here,
within the confines of this hell?
This incessant beeping,
a cruel echo of the futile effort to keep me alive.
Just let me go.
I have no one to hold, no one to mourn me.
The only company I keep
is the occasional shadow
slipping behind a curtain.
I remember the days when dignity was mine.
Now, they speak as if I cannot hear,
make choices I am powerless to oppose.
But I’ve lived. I’ve walked paths
my keepers will never know,
and run where even the brave dare not go.
See my humanness.
Do not pity me.
Heed my wish.
Let me go.
Click Here to Continue to Spring: https://kenziekaddlpoetry.blog/2025/07/27/seasons-of-poetry/
Kenzie Kaddl Poetry 