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.