Gusts find the winter hedge inadequate
where summer thorn was thick. We cope with it.
We layer up when world is wire frame
and wonder why we ever grieved the fall.
What would sky be but grey - rain on our plate
trees' rocking gestures so familiar? Sit,
smile at twig tangles - at the tilting game
wind plays with gull wings or roars to appall.
Something's so sufficient in this winter,
so clean, as year's troubles were all ended -
as when the real we have befriended,
let the surreal slide, its reaving over.
Cozy and quiet, our fingers aching,
old artificers, yet in the making.
YOU ARE READING
Wintering
PuisiIt'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...
