A/N: 8th grade (again), I wrote this about (suprise, suprise) sitting on a wooden bench that is at my uncle's house in upstate New York, looking out onto the mountains in the fall.
This is definitely less of an emotional poem and more of an imagery poem. Very light. Just saying.
The Wooden Bench
I lean into the hard, wooden bench,
Frozen toes, icy fingertips,
And misted breath,
Gazing out onto the mountainous horizon
In the gathering light
Waiting. Waiting.
The sun crests over the mountain,
Igniting trees of red, yellow, green, and bronze,
Creating diamonds in the frosted fields
Of trampled hay and cut-down corn.
Shining. Shining.
Bitter air swirls about my feet;
Blackbirds caw in the distance;
Squirrels scamper past with straw for nests,
And my name is called on the wind.
Freezing. Freezing.
Keeping my face turned to the mild sun,
The rays slowly thaw my numbed cheeks.
Parting company with the hard, wooden bench,
I amble towards my uncle’s cottage,
Inhaling the musty aroma of Autumn mingled with sizzling bacon.
Smiling. Smiling.
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Poems
PoetryPoems I have written from years ago to now. For any of you looking for a love poem, you most likely will not find one here (unless I write one in the distant future because for some reason my brain short-circuited and thought I it would be a good id...
