It could be early November
outside; gravel roads, bare trees
and everything else snow and
clouds the colour of snow. It
makes no difference whatsoever
that it's early spring, according
to the calendar. That voluptous
mother Nature is unveiling
herself, throwing aside
one concealing shroud
after shroud, mirroring her
Autumn form in dark pools
of melt water. It makes
no difference. The Spring
will come full-bosomed
and dance the fallow fields
into flowers. It makes no
difference. Moose and deer
will munch on the flowers
and tall weeds and grass under
a large yellow Moon. It makes
no difference, at all. Like age,
a season is all in the mind,
and here it's winter, the dull
gray-white winter thrown
over the unthawing mind.
It's November, in the
landscape of the brain.
03.04.2024
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
Ei kommentteja:
Lähetä kommentti