A Thought for Every Word

Posts tagged ‘winter’

Spent Blooms

Sandburg…his name constant this winter as the fog again shrouds the trees in gossamer threads as winter lingers.

Spring will return.

Then, as nights warm to longer sun lit days, the doorways will again become host to surplus-store clad night denizens. A whispered community of human discards huddled up against prized possessions found among damp cardboard Chinese-food takeout containers. Bleary eyed from street soot. Weary limbed from stone cold concrete.

A tear unshed now and again for another lost time traveler, and those travelers that must remain. Seeking out the longer sun lit days in green grass parks, with dampened bottoms and leathered faces, gleaning the water from the grass to wash the soot from their finger tips. Wistful smiles as the smell of the grass lightens a darkened soul.

Spring will return, and again the bees will buzz around the spent blooms of yellow daffodils and red tulips that sit crowned on top the pile of white plastic twist tie bags. Gone are the days of spotting the good bits in the open bin. Nails kept long to prick open the bags and pick through the remains. Cavernous dumpsters echo in the growing light.

And Sandburg…whispering again from the open boxcar door, about white pigeons rushing at the sun.

Spring will return. It always does.

Vacant Trees

pale pewter cashmere blankets the sky
rain falls on vacant trees and frost hardened ground
under canopies of twisted fibers
running to find cover from the liquid silver
his back labored and sore from the monumental task
he walks in the rain and in a moment of sweet release
steps out from under the shelter of heavy raiment
and turns his face toward the pale pewter cashmere
cast off the guise of ordinary and copacetic
to walk out and flail against the drops laden with renewal
humming to match the beat of the relentless patter
his face wet with tears shed for love lying deep 
and the funeral progresses for one he called beloved
other names sit like the scent of honeysuckle on his tongue
he will not come now to hold his hand or stroke his brow
his heart hears only the sound of the rain on vacant trees

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