Under The Trees

five sisters stopped me
in my tracks
so that I should
witness their own,
mine so earthbound
among their rotted
the very same
that they discarded
only months ago
when no longer
in season.
I can but tilt
my head back
to watch in envious
wonder at their naked
skyward dance
so effortlessly

The Black Flood

the tarried mere has broken free
darkest winter waters seep
to spill around the ivy’d trees
and thus them in its prison keep
poisoned black inclarity
blood of life and acrid death
to burn the relentless decay
as moss and lichen staunch the breath
from each branch and leafless bough
veins infected lost to new spring
as these ascerbic waters now
do but eternal winters bring.

Quiet Hedgerows

December hedgerows dark
cold and without life they seem
yet they beat and fly and wing
beyond any midwinter’s dream
of a summer birdcall fancy
for these short days still have their lot
and though the songs are quiet now
their melodies are not forgot,
so grieve not the silent passerines
as after winter follows spring
surely as morning clears the night
and in that dawn the birds will sing

Day’s End In December

the sun’s dalliance with this midwinter’s day
comes to nought as short hours slip away
into the dead December evening
where time is buried lost to grieving
Night, moonless and forgetful night
wherein expectation’s hopeful lights
decay in the dark to entombed death
as year’s end’s scythe rips o’er the earth