Tuesday, November 8, 2011
I haven't looked at this for a long time. I made a few changes but right now I see a bunch more I would like to make. Oh well, it is a work in progress. Most of my poetry is, but I hope you can relate to my struggle.
Long limbed Cottonwoods,
abundant silver-grey Russian Olive,
Apple trees with shiny red dots,
graceful Aspen, bowing to breezes,
trees belonging to high plains,
framed by my window.
layered leaves now turn
downward, fall, grounded.
I cry out to them, stop!
I am not ready for winter.
Leave the window open longer
so I can hear leaves, whispering.
I need to hold soft sunlight close
as it shines on most golden corn
or swaying fields of wheat,
pale leaves of cottonwoods
translucent in the autumn light.
I need time
to see again the way sun
molds foothills, late,
softens gray of old barns.
The leaves are beginning to fall, too early,
the sun shifts to the horizan too soon,
the sky deepens its blue
in preparation. Aspens shudder
as they struggle to hold on.
Capture this moment,
its warmth, softness,depth
hold it tight.
For winter is unrelenting,
through doors of darkness
hidden by clouds,
brings the chill of unknown.
No I am not ready for winter
for golden leaves turned black under snow
for windows framed by frost
for the sun turned cold till spring.