FULL ROUND OF SEASONS
A foggy morn
Autumn forlorn
The minutes past
Projects outlast
Then Winter’s born
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.
A MASK OF SNOW
It is still green
Remains to be seen
If this will be
The winter we’ll see
A mask of snow, keen.