Fire pits and the first breath of Jack Frost biting at the garden rows now raked clean of dead Winter debri and tired flaky brown oak leaves become the poetry for this December eve.
Winter is the world turned upside down and with the breaking dawn of the cyclical gyre, Spring shall soon be a quiet destiny. Incense and wax litter the floorboards as candles, windowsills, and desperately quiet childlike eyes keep vigil for the roses that shall one day fill the void of the restless soul.
The shimmering crickets of Summer are a muse to the ear.
Where they disappear this time of year only a scientist and the 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 next to faded green car.
Hopeful eyes starring out frozen panes 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 as patience brews, for there is no rushing the coming warmth.
Sipping at red wine and stoking the glowing coals of the fire pit are the only tasks of the present. Indulgence for the cool mountain air in the silent shadow of fortunes past.
Stony walkways are now free of long tangly 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 the perfect key of Bach in B minor.
Smile contently, lick a finger for the dimly lit candle, and reserve a morning smile for the dream in which tonight you shall surrender.