Cold breakfast on a damp carpet:
A poetic way to welcome the fall.
Glass panels stained with rain,
Obscuring the trees swaying outside—
Leaves in shades of tired green.
Open all the windows and swing your doors
Wide agape, so that chill winds could rush in
And cut across the bare skin—
Like glass.
Of something
Fresh and rare—
Eager like the
Playful
Spring Breeze,
Blowing
Your loose
Lettuce
up,
Up,
and awaaayy—
An enigmatic
Encounter,
So New
and
Ancient
Once again.
Everywhere one looks,
All is still gray—
Buds of a New
Season remain
Unconscious,
Yet to have
Awakened,
Ungerminated—
But somehow,
Creatures of
The eternal
Singsong
Always arrive
Before time—
Preceding
The sprouting,
Gentle greens;
Predicting
The vibrance of
Blooming passions.
Quietly
They glide
In flight,
To
and
Fro,
In the air,
Unseen,
But felt
Within—
Sitting
Invisible
Among
Barren branches,
They whisper
As the caressing
Breeze,
Foreshadowing
Wonder
and
Rescue
Of A new Spring.
A harvest of their own kind
Or is it? Are they simply, forcibly, and artificially alive for our pleasure?
I’m sorry; lately all I see is white in black, or vice versa.
Particular Moments 