The vines in profusion
did bend their supports till broken,
their weight a token
of a harvest yet to come,
and driven back to their trunks,
they shudder at the loss,
and I hope they’ll fight on till spring.
Winter clouds hang low,
their brooding mood a silent atrophy,
sun deprived and light prohibitive,
persimmons fruit with reckless abandon,
cracking limbs under weight
their orange/red ripening
ready now to pick.
The frost begins in frozen dawns,
diamond grasses anointed, shimmer,
and misted air does rise slow up to greet the sky,
perhaps to persuade the blue to glimmer,
and most everything now is shut down,
a season for hibernation,
by fireside, my inclination.
Trees now bare have shed their leaves,
like talon hands reach up in desperate plea,
and streets are desolate,
too cold for a casual stroll,
or even work can take a toll in winter’s grip,
so I’ll just sit tapping, ruminating
my next profound thought, as I aught.
Even birds are quiet,
their songs lost in frosted morns,
and like fluffed up balls they sit upon fences and bow,
enduring the cold and waiting for the clouds to relent
and sun to stream a shard of warmth,
to remind them this is temporary,
and come spring, will be its own reward.
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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