The waxwings have come and gone.
Blue stars open in the garden, a blue
deeper than dusk. Seasonal worries
are still a ways off: flooding rivers,
drought in the fields, fire in dry woods.
Fire leaping across the tops of trees,
toward town. For now, as distant
as World War III, and as close. We
turn off our furnaces, shake out
the rugs, sweep the bare floors.
The ash trees, bereft of berries,
push out buds. Squirrels dig
in the unfrozen flower beds,
searching out remnants of last
year’s treasures. The house cat
watches from the window. What
do seasons mean to her? In an old
woman’s memory, these years blur
together. Once there were young
men, piled like kindling, hard as
seasoned wood. All gone now.
This is from a NaPoWriMo prompt. I don't plan to try for a poem a day; if I get a poem a week I'll be happy.
[Click the image to see credits & larger sizes at flickr.]
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