The Seasonal Pauper Poem by Patrick Czyz

The prize drawing was yesterday.
I lost. They all can't be winners.
Yet this misfortune does not dwell
Deep within my desiring heart.
Nor is it a mark for which I sigh.
I am not rich with summer and sun.
So you can call me a seasonal pauper
Because I must share what little wealth I have
With very demanding and soul-taxing snow.
It is cold and nipping but it too does not dwell
Atop the unfortunately frozen plants.
It is because of those marks
For which I cry out of joy. Not sigh.
They are the beauty despite what else I see.
For when white wallows of winter melt,
Lush green ground and that heat I felt
Afford me the only wealth I can take to the grave:
A well lived life.