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.

Snowfall on a Bare Branch

And what about the branch?
Ice crusted now
sans any shade of leaf,
the song bird gone,
the feathered nest deserted.

The branch that wore the bud
of Spring:  It bore
the fruit of season’s bloom
and now it waxes barren.

But look, a million rainbows
dance in random step.
It holds them loosely
in the crystal flakes

that gaily claim their space
on its outstretched hands.
As the seasons pass
it may wear varied robes;

some fade, some fly away,
but the branch remains
essentially unchanged
no matter the weather
or fickle fashion’s trend.


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’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.

Was it Just Last Week?

Ninety degrees,
the heat and humidity
are more than transcendental
though they flirt with knowing
of hell.

Apparitions rise
out of asphalt no longer scarred
by the tread of too many tires.
That viscous face oozes tar from its pores.
Relocation has its appeal.

The sun sizzles crisply
consuming the air.  Birds
that sang through the storm
are listless now, too parched
to whistle.

Twilight paints with lilac and purple,
Earth turns impressionist instead of precise.
Grandma’s old porch swing adds its squeak
to the squawk of crickets and frogs.
This must be paradise.