WINTER’S END
The Wood is glazed
A frozen shell
Silvery sky unfazed
Icy fingers fell
Silent, static, gray
Surrendered wont
Captured whey
No creatures jaunt
Miniature icicles hang
Pendants, tapering mass
Temperature’s taunt fang
Locked and keenly cast
It’s Winter’s end, alas…
WINTER’S PROSE TOO
Tattered and battered charcoal-gray wintered limbs reach and wiggle for the warmth of the sun; through a silver-gray winters pall; winters old and wintering in the yard.
MY DEAREST C.,
As I sit in the sanctuary of this tree house at six-forty-five am in the mid autumn darkness of daylight savings time, typing and sipping a very hot medium roast of cocoa and subtle spice of Guatemala Antigua, softly and quietly illuminated by the candles in the window and the twinkle lights from the terrace, the grounds below invisible and the wood, beyond the bay window I am facing, but a mere phantom, I feel gratitude for this measurable measure of equanimity.
A silver-gray pall has again draped over the peninsula; casting deeply and moodily the impression of tropical depression. Commuters sluice their wary ways through the juicy film clinging to the surfaces of the avenues. Pellets of precipitation rattle heavily on the skylight overhead. The birds are silent, while the shiny wet leaves of the verdant canopy of the wood waggle to the tune of variable breezes.
Early morning foggy bay windows conflate the assembling verdant canopy before my brooding mind; becoming and impressionistic. From my bungalow of a tree house the view is bucolic, there are no other dwellings in sight, only the lilt of the foliage of the lissome trees. A harbinger of darkness draps over the peninsula, more thunderstorms insouciantly imbue the labyrinthine horizon. Precipitation is sempiternal; a plethora of Adam’s ale waving, streaming and pooling. The Susquehanna and Delaware swell with ebullience to ravel a propinquity of riparian for all. In penumbra we pause, the pall promising more to come.
With Assiduity,
R.
SHADES OF RAIN
As I sit here in anticipation of the storms that seem to be dissipating before reaching this shore I view the map that is strewn with with that color between blue and yellow of the spectrum that is as green if not greener than the virescent canopy which drapes before me keeping the aforementioned cacophony at bay. Weather or not, the day will inevitably unfold to share it’s inscrutable riches on the haves and have nots, without a doubt like the wraith rains themselves, more so on some rather than others.
“It’s the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more.” – Albus Dumbledore
