We sipped our fill from this years beer
until at last we came to winters snowy dregs
with whetted lips and foam still fresh upon the tongue
knowing that in time spring’s ale will surely come,
for now we mourn the empty ailing year
what once was fine and foaming full is done

Dear reader, let me with you share
how we must loosen winter’s snare.

I remember my last summer
when lazy clouds would puff the sky
and the river’d laugh and murmur
while the wind wandered gently by.

The trees all waved in greeting
with their maple green hand leaves
while air with nectar dripping
wafted past my senses’ eaves.

All around were people glowing,
each filled to the rim with gold sunlight,
each face a brimming chalice flowing
with the fruit of grapes of delight.

But now the sun’s departed
behind the bleak clouds’ winter coat
while leafless trees look guarded —
no more waving, just remote.

I turn my collar stiffly upwards,
wrap my scarf around my face,
become one more of masked hundreds —
of our hearts’ warming hearths no trace.

Where voices once were warm and clear,
they languish, muffled in a space
that tightens in a chilling fear
locked in the creeping frost’s embrace.

The slice of ice into my bones
snaps me awake to think again
and free myself from aches and groans
that winter’s biting shadow sends.

Under winter’s bitter blanket grey,
my mind wills back to summer’s upland hills
that shimmer in sunlit summer days
to cast off winter’s hoary chills.

And so, my friend, do we choose the dark
or do we light the solstice spark?

People ask how scientists know it’s truly fall,
And people tell them about the Fall equinox.
That we know it’s Fall when the sun dips below the horizon,
On both halves of the globe.
That the coming of fall is when the people in the southern side of the earth,
Have spring.

That is how science knows it’s fall,
But how do we know the date, the hour?
I could tell you when fall is here,
But it won't be down to the minute.
I know fall has come when the winds turn cold,
And the leaves of the oak trees are bleeding.
When the streets are empty of the children playing,
When I sit on a fallen birch log on the beach,
Staring at the water, but I’m shivering in a flannel,
And the water is frozen over.
When i come home and the tea kettle is going,
But all the summer lemon tea is put away.
Little changes in these things, they will lead me astray.

The coming of fall.

That’s how I know the fall is coming,
Not by watching the hours of my days.
Not based on when the sun rises in Iran,
But by the feel of the winds,
But by the blood of the leaves.
And by the tears that have fallen,
On these empty streets.

The Fall Of Twenty-Twenty Four.

"Ummm... I like you," she said,
her voice a trembling whisper.
Beads of sweat glistened on her brow,
breath uneven,
her heart pounding like fragile thunder.

She stood in quiet stillness,
anticipation pooling in her eyes,
her gaze fixed,

And then, I felt it—
a rush of warmth blooming in my chest,
nerves tangling with wonder,
as if her words were rewriting my very being.

For a moment, time stood still—
and that was when
I felt spring in the winter.

my friend came by the other day
as a leaf in the wind he has blown
from street to street
            town to town.

a wanderer he may be
but not at heart--
he longs to be attached
to a tree
                               any tree.

in spring and summer the leaves
     are green and
                              attached.

summer slowly dries them out as the tree
                    prepares for winter.

my friend the dry brown leaf
blows in his perpetual autumn.

we all grow in our own time
and season:

winter dormancy

         spring regeneration

                   summer fulfillment

                             fall  preparing for the
                                                  
          ­  inevitable
season of death.

these seasons of the soul
are the very essence of our existence.

     they teach us

        temper us

        fulfill us.

but there are those who do not see
the purpose of the seasons.
to them winter means only

                             cold

                                       snow

                       desolation.          

spring means only

                    rain

                mud

                            flooding.

summer means

                             beauty to mock
                                the heart in
                                     winter.

i trust in the wisdom of the seasons.
nature teaches us lessons in her cycles.

let the  l
                e
                 a
                  f
fall to the ground.
let it rot into cold

    stark

                        winter

           desolation.

spring will come.

bleak gray will become bright colours
                  of spring.

the beauty will fade once again but will
reappear in winter's own stark beauty
though it may be cold and gray.
then spring will come.

          spring-will-come !!!

Your sugar dust dances,
Falling in wisps and whirls onto the carcass of summer;
And that silent breath, like the ghost of a kiss,
Shadows under ill-lit street lamps.
Where toes dig deep into woolen blanket
And the body's fire is the only reprieve from your reaching icicles
I shall slip a smile to these rose petal lips and welcome your cold embrace

The very last leaf of the fall
gave her level best and all
to shine as bright as she could be
and spite the winter’s hoary freeze.

There amongst the faded stems
of lavender that’s lost her lilac gems,
this leaf has nestled in a pose
that rivals summer’s crimson rose.

A leafy lantern of orange and gold
alit on silvered frosted ground a-cold
to blaze forth in her final victory:
An exit worthy of ancient histories.