Fire pits with the last breath of Jack Frost biting at the garden rows raked clear of dead Winter debri, and tired flaky brown oak leafs become the poetry this February eve
Winter is the world turned upside down. The beckoning of the cyclical gyre of the world shall soon turn round into Spring. Incense and wax pour onto creaky floorboards as candles, windowsills, and desperately quiet childlike;eyes keep vigil of roses that shall fill the void of the restless soul.
The shimmering crickets of Summer are a muse to the ear. They are the true poets of Summer growth.
Where they disappear this time of year only a scientist and the wordsmith poet would care to explore.
Maybe to hidden garden holes that open to another world,
Or possibly to sleep the Winter away in that cozy looking Dogwood tree over yonder.
Starring endlessly into what shall be glorious garden rows,
The vision of voluptuous roses as if penned to life by Shakespeare dance in the head.
The gardens of the past shall be an encouragement.
The black fingernails of a hard day of work will not rush the coming warmth.
Sipping red wine and stoking the glowing coals of the fire pit are the tasks of the present. There is sweet indulgence for the cool mountain air in the silent shadow of fortunes past.
Stony walkways are now free of long gangly green vines that lead to a cottage and a nightly bedtime routine.
Listening one last time for that cricket shimmer that shall not yet be and to Bach in B minor; Oh My!…the perfect key.
Smile contentedly, lick a finger for the dimly lit candle, and reserve a morning smile for the coming dream in which you shall surrender.