It’s a cold grey sky,
wintry overhead,
a rowdy autumn wind
has left me just a shred,
so what do I do
without my coat of red?
I hold out all my arms
and wear some birds instead.
It’s a cold grey sky,
wintry overhead,
a rowdy autumn wind
has left me just a shred,
so what do I do
without my coat of red?
I hold out all my arms
and wear some birds instead.
are known as Winter Games
others not so huge
are known by different names
appreciably
less bold
but unarguably
less cold.
a childless park
a street frozen-rutted
silent, stark.
Hard world
for tiny chickadee
hopping zig-zags
in empty tree
twig to twig
at life’s behest
lone Galahad
in Grail’s quest.
the wind blows black
staining
like berry ooze
the air.
Crystal-wrapped,
contorted, brittle,
a small tree
shivering
bows its
winter’d head,
bald and bare.
Beyond,
in waffling line,
yellowed
warmth of homelight
teases —
welcoming
warning
flare.
lhude sing the flue
bloweth snows
and freezeth nose
sing the flue!
Crimson leaf doth nobly hold
but arresteth not the season;
cometh chapstick, cometh cold,
pulleth I my fleece on.
A little bit of cold
a crackle in the air
a moaning wind’s complaint.
A year that’s getting old
a burrowed pied-a-terre
a little bit of paint.
in the park
disdains the looming cold,
regally ruffled
in yellowing green
with brooch of saffron gold.