"bowing" poems - Hello Poetry

He has taken rake and shovel in hand, Taking advantage of the light, Rare in these climes this time of year, Still welcomed, though rendered severe By the sun's reluctant trudge above the horizon, The type which, sauntering through a window pane (Falling upon a crucifix anchored above a cradle Or some ancient, gilded frame Containing a photo of some grandparent's wedding day, Exploding into full undifferentiated diffusion) May possess a dram of warmth, albeit resigned, nostalgic A bittersweet reminder of what has gone by (And in the shade, the air is filled With the portentous chill of what lies a few months hence) But there nonetheless as he tends to those final farewells From the trees bowing to December's inevitability, The droppings not the Pollock-esque bursts of October (Those having been collected and consigned To the normal corner of the back lot) But dreary brown-hued things, not welcomed by eye nor heart, Simply corralled perfunctorily and dismissed. One could contend that such activity is unnecessary, The mere vanity of all endeavor, As the snow will come soon, and steady as well, Performing the seasonal, cyclical function in its own time, But he soldiers on nonetheless, a unseen one-act nearly-farce, Painstakingly raking and bending and scraping To leave his patch of green uncovered for a little while Until the locking time comes to seal the earth's secrets once more, To be revealed to those Who shall receive the teasing ministrations Of the fickle, fitful March equinox.

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Jul 23, 2018

Jul 23, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC

wk-kortas

November In The Sun

He has taken rake and shovel in hand, Taking advantage of the light, Rare in these climes this time of year, Still welcomed, though rendered severe By the sun's reluctant trudge above the horizon, The type which, sauntering through a window pane (Falling upon a crucifix anchored above a cradle Or some ancient, gilded frame Containing a photo of some grandparent's wedding day, Exploding into full undifferentiated diffusion) May possess a dram of warmth, albeit resigned, nostalgic A bittersweet reminder of what has gone by (And in the shade, the air is filled With the portentous chill of what lies a few months hence) But there nonetheless as he tends to those final farewells From the trees bowing to December's inevitability, The droppings not the Pollock-esque bursts of October (Those having been collected and consigned To the normal corner of the back lot) But dreary brown-hued things, not welcomed by eye nor heart, Simply corralled perfunctorily and dismissed. One could contend that such activity is unnecessary, The mere vanity of all endeavor, As the snow will come soon, and steady as well, Performing the seasonal, cyclical function in its own time, But he soldiers on nonetheless, a unseen one-act nearly-farce, Painstakingly raking and bending and scraping To leave his patch of green uncovered for a little while Until the locking time comes to seal the earth's secrets once more, To be revealed to those Who shall receive the teasing ministrations Of the fickle, fitful March equinox.