A Season Beyond

We live in an era contrived,
its history untried.  Wind
rattles the shutters. Everyone
is looking for something.

Virtue and vice
have morphed and merged.
Politically correct is a catch phrase
clichéd until its muscle is gone.

We are all too thin
in the mind, too hefty
in hindsight.
Our passions are spent.

We sit in dusty rocking chairs,
melting into the fading brocade,
minds and bodies walled in
until even our friends are intruders.

There, on the frozen horizon,
a glint of sun.  It is not too late
and never too soon
to switch directions.

The Importance of Flexibility

The snow flocked art of shrub and lawn
excites me though it is an aggravation.
What fun to see the fluff and blow
of snowflakes dancing with the wind.

Time now to take me to the shed,
get the shovel from its bed
and convince the knees, not the back
to bend.

The robin sings though green is gone
so who am I to carry on
because the weatherman
spoke with fork’ed tongue?

Come friend, forget the foiled plans;
let’s be children once again. There’s
just enough to make a snowman
if we make him thin.

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.