A Taste of Winter

Ah, the joy that we savor
when snowflakes gaily gather
to share a taste of winter
with every waiting child
no matter what their age.

Seasoned perfectly this year
the nip is in the air;
anticipation heightens
in correlation with the mercury’s descent.
Isn’t that the way it’s meant to be?

Scraping ice and shoveling walks,
no more than inconvenience
when considered in perspective
of eyes aglow with dreams
of Christmas.

The top hat on the closet shelf
is fairly dancing with delight,
ready to share the magic
that will turn a solemn snowman
into a lively Fred Astaire.

Tree limbs are laced with frosty ice,
the meadow’s wearing fleece
of white and
the kitchen’s wafting cinnamon
makes  this a savory winter’s night.

By the Winter Sea

echoes the absence of summer;
no cricket,
no insect hums,

just the song of the winter sea
venting uninhibited
by thrum of wings
or splish-splash of fish.

A crescent moon
nestled atop the hill
speaks the color of clouds
in tongues

of dun sand
and the gloomy red
of a sun
gone down;

a somber scene
but for the shifting dunes
and the ever whispering song
of the sea and the wind.

Autumn Flings its Cloak Across the Field

Autumn flings its cloak across the field,
cornstalks preen in diamond glaze,
robust pumpkins, symbol
of the season’s bounty, anticipate
Thanksgiving’s celebration.

Overhead, a whirl of starlings
curtains the sky with cacophony
and opalescent wings.  The blue asters,
blooming diligently, take little notice
but the roses give it all away.

The pendulum has swung;
last vestiges of summer turn shy
beneath their frosty façade.
Flaming leaves fly
as autumn holds its thrall.

So soon, wintry days
will claim the stage. Snowflakes
will waken the child in us again
as windows capture our breath
of awe, but for now,

Autumn flings its cloak across the field.


In Mossy Verdigris

Moss swept roots and leafless limbs,
the mighty tree stands bare
and without shame;
it knows no sin.

Scarred by lightning strikes
and lovers’ hearts, graceful
in the harshest wind, it stands its ground

In younger days I scaled its heights;
we both had greener limbs
back then,  and all those years
I was away

it kept on growing.
Oblivious to encroaching trends,
it resisted blight and storm, surviving
youth with fickle hearts

and even their return. New children
climb upon it now. Their hours of play
will make a poem
when old memories come calling, clad

in mossy verdigris.

Autumn’s Eastern Shore

A sepia daguerreotype;
the flat fields, the stubble left over
from October’s second cutting,
the shocks of corn
like rows of teepees ,

Some see a morning monotone
but my eye
sees a thousand shades and hues,
a palette unmatched
by any mortal hand,

O beautiful bronze of autumn
when you are gone
the year is all but done;
in spring the clover
will bloom again.

The crocus and the daffodil
will decorate new green
but my soul still finds its solace
on the Eastern Shore
in autumn.