In celebration of trying to embrace shortened days and heavy periods of rain, here is an old poem I wrote a long time ago to motivate me to write some new ones in the coming quiet season. Or, at the very least, knit something. Or, sidestep all that is wholesome and artistic and ski every day? Oh wait! I still have to work. Dream life: averted. The path to winter happiness and ease is a heady work in progress….
The maples are red this year.
Each tree more auburn than that october
when I was five and he brushed leaves off my cheeks
rosy from crisp wind.
That second steam danced.
Moving sweet tangos over fresh teacups
waiting on windowsills rusty with cold.
Now as paint starts to peel off
his slow flush of shadow,
it becomes strange that we sit here
still night-seconds passing.
While out there in the maples
rouge leaves curled in season,
That oak; its slipped orange.
(photo credit: myles morrison)