Half formed flakes of snow
like almost opened parachutes
spiral toward the ground
Splat, they die, melting
like the Wicked Witch of the West

The crows, already evil-tempered
envy the squirrels holed up
and plot revenge, for the first sunny day
Everything stops and I am aware
of the silence; forced by the shivers

Bedraggled pigeons, leave the wires
finding solace in the house of God
where the pastor forgot to nail screen
He is dozing by the fire, unaware of
the soft voices in the belfry

Everyone is sleeping
as light slowly breaks
welcoming this Thanksgiving day.

I'm careful, stepping softly,
tiptoeing if you will...
hens nestled upon thier batch.

Into the coop I go, like a slueth,
beneath my feet the leaves and twigs snap.

This mornings' chill is warmer still
than the farmers axe upon my neck
and my tired eyes begin to close...

I whisper "farewell" to that old fence post, witholding my final call, I refuse to perch...
extra sleep my gift to all.

You make one feel
like a young woman indeed
roaming in the Garden of Victoria
on an evening wintry cold nude absolutely

no fear of Adam’s spear
he was meant to sow without fear

seasonal youth has since evaded
we have been with snow loaded

leaves buds and petals
have all suddenly withered away
comes autumn now our way
smearing all fragrance astray

colorful hues go away whom, does autumn bare
as if she was another one
of her lovely womanly ware

I wish that Santa was still real,
Grandma and Gramps would be here
and Dad and my sister Anne,
Pal too my beagle hound.
They all taught me what loving is.

I wish Santa was still real.
The trip to Grammy’s and Pa’s
was a thing to wait for each year.
The entire family there,
all nine uncles and aunts,
and my cousins.
A potpourri the result of love.