my winter beach,
is no beach at all,
but a man-tended lawn,
mostly always, a man-made
miracle green,
except when snow smothered

it sites sheltered tween
two Manhattan Isle streets,
the surrounding roofs, the balconies,
watchtowers overlooking
are its guardians


this, a private refuge,
more akin to
London's garden squares

indeed,
it hides invisible from the public's probing glares,
for it is high-wall guarded,
very few ken its existence

at the far north end are
two red benches,
the simplest kind that adorn most parks,
comfortable for an hour of two,
before the body's slowing heart demands
movement now!

it is my
imagined winter beach,
guarded by pine branches and white birch trees
plus the tumultuous sounds of
silent evergreen plantings
and subdued city cacophony

I pluck from this atmosphere
only city poems,
more hustle and bustle scripts,
than the calming summer surf writs,
that are peculiar to
sandy beach breezes

the city winter beach season
too short,
just like its true
summery country companion

soon the latecomers of
lingering warmth and the high coloration of fall
will given in to the
irrefutable and chilling demands of an
insistent I-have-arrived
winter

its super-cooled demands will banish me inward
seeking new poem information
from beaches envisioned from within ,
for now is
|all-absent
the outside inspiration

but not just yet...

October leaches into Thanksgiving,
colder and more forlorn with each ticking day,
falling leaf

for now tho,
rise early to catch the
straggler sun's still-heated rising currents
from the nearby
East River

scribble and peck,
breathing a different season's flavor
and inspirations,
more crisp,
more reddish and deeper hued
than a summer's pale blushed vin rosé,
and fall's yellows, au contraire,
brilliantly softer
than the harsh beach's yellowing sun glare

scribble and peck
drawing new drafts from the serious drafts surrounding,
these, no gentle breezes pretenders,
these, chilled winds of substance,
demand greater and different tastebuds,
cold concentration

from the red benches of my pseudo-summer beach,
my words,
surrounded by cool,
burst forth like the wintry season's breath of
exhalations,
smoking but not summarized as hot,
and far faster to cool,
quicker  to hide,
than the slow, spectacular setting allowance of a
genuine summer sunset

my scribbles and pecking performance
in and of the fall season,
smoke, but do not sizzle,
short blasts from an always,
under dressed
summer man,
foolishly attempting to transform
a green lawn with a dreams re-visualized,
calling it what he wants,
beach

the poet,
felled by the now permanent chill's vital signs,
burns smokey slowly
like fallen leaves piled and burning,
wondering out loud

have the seasonal signals
changed his long term trend,
truly modified the poet's moody perspective,
or this but a transversal changeling,
can he still believe
his summer
will yet return
one more time?