(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 ... severe winter weather, that is ... 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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