Winter speaks before
Autumn's finished flinging
her swirling cape of leaves.
Onto muddy ground
snow insists on falling.
My turn! my turn! it says,
October a mere halfling,
woodshed's gaping
maw most alarming,
last year's slippers in
dire need of mending,
pumpkin hulls mush
slurry orange slush,
Fall veggies reneging.
So soon? we question,
berating ourselves
all we've left undone.
Not much to show but
these half empty shelves
for a summer's singing
and lighthearted fun.
What were we thinking?
Dread wriggles in as
longest-coldest-winter
pries open root cellar door
of our sober imaginings.
Are these meagre stores
enough to last till Spring?
White foreshadowing
heralds cold cut days,
sky's low scrim netting
trees' prism-drop plays,
sparkling rainbow gems
remind us Sun's rebirth amends
our wincing, mincing ways.
YOU ARE READING
The Smell of Snow
PoetryFrom my home on a tiny island, I smell snow as it begins to fall on the mountains across Baynes Sound. A smell that goes directly up your nostrils with a slight hint of metal or ozone, a bit like refrigerant. And of course I love to confirm my sense...
