Without wings
I sit, high in the palm of the tree,
looking down on earth beneath
where others walk.
I would fly away as snow drops
but the white chastity of winter
spreads around the landscape
until it is lost.
And what have I found here?
A perch above that which is taken.
Gone now are the nights
of warm sock wrapping.
Of dripping pipes.
The last bit of cold (I
believe) has passed,
at least for a while.
Now the time has come
for sunburn, perspiration.
Sprinkler systems.
Shades of green, shattered
blue eggshells,
decorating the outside view.
A summer breeze
blew leaves across the sky.
The leaves landed in piles at the
base of a tree.
Children played all afternoon
jumping and having fun.
Fall was making an early entrance.
A winter night’s dream
warm sun and flowers
snows melt screaming
begging for one last day.
Bikes are slowly riding
beside windblown sands
boards ride upon the surf
tan bodies lay on towels.
Convertibles cruise on by
parking on the boardwalk
in a crazy, lazy warmth
of a cold night’s dream.
Finest hour to honor her.
The clock is silent under Evening’s hand.
Her voice will soon sing out
over insistent crickets.
They cannot keep
her crackle of footstep
through dying leaves
to steal the first pumpkin.
Happiness is quiet too.
We are waiting for her.
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Autumn will come
Trees will bow down
Layering their colourful leaves
On the ground.
Winter will come
Snowflakes will fall
Covering the city
In a blanket of white.
Spring will come
Flowers will bloom
Filling the hearts of loved ones
With joy.
Summer will come
Swimming pools
Bar-b-ques
Autumn will return
Again
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