(Just a spur of the moment shot I took of a snow-covered table sitting alone outside a dining place; it reminds me of one of my favorite foods, now on my forbidden list: C-A-K-E)
No ... winter hasn't come to Ohio ... yet.
But winter will come, believe me.
Today, though, I'm thinking ahead ... well beyond winter to ... those things I speak of at the end of the poem.
Take a look, please:
WINTER COMES
When it arrives like
a gentle rustling
descending a stairway,
the wary resident
might slam a deadbolt
against it like some
grumping, groggy bear,
were it not for a tiny
preserved memory
of a far warmer world,
where flowers are not
mere speculations,
where the ice has fallen
away, the bees jubilant.
© 2000
a gentle rustling
descending a stairway,
the wary resident
might slam a deadbolt
against it like some
grumping, groggy bear,
were it not for a tiny
preserved memory
of a far warmer world,
where flowers are not
mere speculations,
where the ice has fallen
away, the bees jubilant.
© 2000
(received an honorable mention award in a Poets Study Club competition)
Today's word: jubilant
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