Magpies in the
     cemetary;
I sit and remember
beneath the pines.
How cold the world
     seems at times.
You were always
     there.
Magpies in the cemetary --
the dogwood branches bare,
skeleton trees shrouded
by winter's chill.
I sit and remember.
Mother, father...
I miss you so.

A wolf is resting
in the woods --
fires are burning.
Man dispelling
encroaching spirits.
Snow begins to fall --
skeleton trees
stand bold against
the enclosing air.
Ancient fear lingers:
half-hidden,
     half- realized.
Man huddles
by the fire --
rituals, learned
   long ago,
with careful hands
are performed.
(Snow is falling
all around.)
A wolf is resting
in the woods --
fires ae burning.
Man...

it is the days
we do not speak of
that turn our lives.
it is the cold
which makes us yearn
for houses made of woolen.
we are caught
in the endless bric-a-brac,
the absurdity of it all.
we are the children of
men-in-winter,
mad sailors
and silent snow.

A ****** of crows --
the branches bare.
Time at the edge
   of the field
stands still.
Snow descended
   in the night:
a pure, white
caress of the land.
The crows tuck
their wings in tight--
eyeing  what could
be seen as desolation.

The field is empty
save the crows.
Time, time...
it had to happen.
Time, time:
it does not matter.
The field is still,
the crows are still.
Time: forgotten now.

The air is close,
it looks like snow --
too soon, too soon,
the Season isn't
   ready yet?
The last leaf
has not fallen.
The last rose
has not blown away.
'Too soon, too soon',
the little bird cries,
as the air casts blue
and twilight hints of snow.
When was winter
so far away?
Do we remember
those lazy days?
And now, the sky
threatens
with a brittle beauty...

If  I wake to snow,
I will not be surprised,
I'll just sigh
and say, 'too soon.'

There are many
     blessing
in a quiet life,
   you know.
A peaceful walk
with the dogs;
a book to wile
away the hours.
I think of May
and all the flowers.
A stroll downtown,
recalling memories
from long ago.
A nod, a smile
to passerby's --
then back home
to my little realm,
warm and safe...
A cup of tea.
There are many
   blessings
in a quiet life,
   you know.

Leaves upon the  
   ground --
the sky steel gray.
The last roses
wet with rain,
yet that does not
belie their summer
   beauty.
November's chill
   creeps in,
with the air full
of autumn's decay.
The year past
is not lost to the
   day.
Soon winter's
brittle beauty comes,
but for now
November reigns:
a hint of skeleton trees
   to come...
and those last roses
will have blown away.