warm days. feeling of late September or those strange days in March when winter struggles against spring but its December. a week from the new year and I walk the garden with the certainty that I have left whatever was behind, and time is on holiday ever green, ever more
cold rain graying the day sluicing garden path slate and mossed green mists hang heavy in delicate bamboo limbs hiding light in pale jade leaves bowing in deep regard to winters return streaked dark bare limbs tarnished with rain silver and gleam
Tattered-
clouds unravel
threads of sky, loose
and torn.
Chattering –
sleet bounces across the tin roof-
tears of ice
on my face.
Shattered –
the sleet colored sky
falls to earth-
gray on gray on gray.
thecourseofourseasons 