The faintest crescent of the waxing moon
edged on in chalk to blue-hazed sky
drifting milk-veils cannot swathe from view,
while robed in gold glow southwest lies
the setting sun behind fence boards,
neighbor's shed, roofs across the way
where roads roll right out of town.
Bare trees that barely breathe, but in young twigs,
have fallen to winter hibernation,
consoled by summer-stored sugars, respire
in slow anaerobic sufficiency.
Beneath the moon, between the somber yew
and optimistic privet stretching up
above the dogged bramble hangers-on,
and grass almost as thick as summer's lush
to prove a growing season lingers long,
where elder-gilding late sun angles higher,
even as it slips down dusk's reddening throat,
midges dance their ecstasies.
YOU ARE READING
Wintering
PoetryIt's yet another MajorSeventh. Hop on the big shoulders and look ... Lastest poems are always posted last in my collections. Winter. So, expect sparse gardens, late autumn and wintry countryside, wry philosophy and humour, tenderness towards litt...
