At times like these I feel the years upon me

the slow aching in my limbs

as reluctantly they face the floor

for yet another chastening day

the downward curl of lips as jowls sprout

yet another line.

Ah gravity! You’ll make jelly of me yet.


The season of snow’s upon me

the light november warmth caresses only slightly

as the sun passes the thrusting tips of the maples

it seems I planted only a hundred years ago.


Deep deep down, curled among the roots

somewhere a burrow there must be

a place for me in significant soil

where I can sleep the season through

to waken only when the sun has kissed the crocus

and the melting snow has breached my winter coat.


O then to spring again . . .

white and tough, pushing up through the sward

to the springtime world above knowing that

though winter comes

the earth in this enchanted land will nourish

me a thousand seasons through,

that my own thoughts

like leaves each season blown

return to earth that richer makes them grow.

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