November chill
rusts the dogwood,
scatters the locust seeds
down the sodden street
the maple this year
shows an unusual
reluctance for red
but today gray was made
a near beautiful thing –
a frame for the darker
darts of the chickadees
in the yellow goodbye
of the chestnut tree
© Sarah Whiteley
the insistence of clouds
makes of this a barely moon –
a struggle against
the low skies of winter
and yet yesterday
I watched a robin stridently pipe
his wish for a willing wife
from the top of the power pole
spring, though still disguised
in her winter veil,
emerges from the damp –
shyly purple, in violets
© Sarah Whiteley
these long weeks while
the locust tree sleeps
unheeding of the rain
that drips from stems
and limbs, the seeking
beaks of the crows pull
seeds from their dangling
brown pods – a meager feed
worthy of the gray,
hungering days and watery dusks
outside my window
© Sarah Whiteley
One of a poet’s many blessings – any weather is poetry weather. 🙂 Happy Friday, my friends!
ebbtide 