In feeble imitation
we aspire
in manmade constellation
of bulb and wire
to capture stars
of eons sired.
From night’s black depth
atop vast spire
two hoary lights,
amused, admire.
Thanks yet again to photographer S. W. Berg for this beauty.
And happy birthday to Emily Dickinson!
If Rumpelstiltskin were just a story
how came these beds of golden glory
how else explain the gilded wrap
for leaf and acorn winter nap?
Now is the time of projects
inspired by the glow of the season
so I undertake insanities
in full-blown leave of my reason.
The proof of project fever
— I needn’t offer more —
is how much December time
I spend upon the floor.
Virtuous organization
visual oversight
can only be accomplished
by wall-to-wall floor blight.
Consuming and invasive,
tentacled, rapacious,
projects change to crowded
rooms that once seemed spacious.
But all of that aside
there’s yet another bane
the consequence to me:
my joints in chorus complain,
“Deck the halls! Hang holly!
Spike the eggnog cup!
But please to keep this truth in mind:
what goes down must get back up!”
Child-tree
frail, lithe
bids the good-bye light
stay.
The grasses lend their wool
musty-hued
but night
and winter
will be.
Many thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
UP is that place
to run
LEAVES are
for having fun
TREES are
for being goal
DOWN is that place
to roll
I used to be ten
I remember when
but I don’t think I’ll try it again.
Have you ever, dear reader, wanted to roll down a leafy hill long after you knew you’d be an idiot to try?
Thanks again to photographer S.W. Berg and Happy Birthday to D. J. Berg!
In steady dismal torrents
slapped by winds all manic
December gushes in
announced by din tympanic.
It pounds against my house
buffets fore and aft
must I do Christmas shopping
bobbing on a raft?
The header up above
is fragment of this tree.
Photographer, you might surmise,
is puny awestruck me.
I stood in back-bowed wonder
beneath a world bedecked;
I think I have a clue
why I am so stiff-necked.
With thanks to S.W. Berg, the photographer of the photographer.
