On this cold and breezy
November afternoon,
I wandered into the backyard
To listen to winter's tune.
The sounds of crunching leaves.
The mournful silence of the wind
Blowing through the leafless trees.
Only barren branches bend.
There is not a single cheep
From a sparrow or a dove.
They must be hunkered down.
Snuggling with the one they love.
The grass is no longer shiny green.
Darker with tones of brown.
Before too much longer
Only the latter color will be found.
The roses have stopped their growth.
Working on their hips.
Their focus now
Preparing for winter's grip.
When I went into the alley
Across the fence in arched repose
Was a climbing cane
With a single crimson rose.
Against all odds,
It refused to die.
If this rose can bloom
Then surely so can I.
YOU ARE READING
Stories and Poems Written from the Garden
PoetryA friend of mine suggested that instead of organizing what I write chronologically that I do so by topic. This book contains short stories and poems written from the garden.
