Not Quite a Season
Rustling in the snow. Old leaves
sliding over the icy shell,
It will melt soon. It is too early
for a hard snow, the kind that stays.
Already it is warming, with the peach sun
coming up over the quarry,
a hint of fall heat on the cusp of winter,
a promise that this icing morning will pass
and the thin layer of crusty snow will melt
its way into the creek.
I stand, for a while, taking in, not the scenery,
pretty as it is, but the change,
the change in temperature and wind,
of light and the fates, aware more than most
that nothing is forever.
Even the things you want, desperately want, to be.
About this poem
About that time between seasons. Natural ones and the ones in our lives. Mostly I like change. But at times perhaps, I feel I have had too much.
The picture was taken behind my house.