2 Short Poems

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Winding Down, October End

Winding down, October ends, drab,

muted, Summer’s youth long forgotten,

turning cold, warmed by the years’ passing.

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Enough

Snow fell last night,

           not much, enough for the birds

          to leave their footprints, soft

                etchings leading to my door and away.

Poetry is But a Conversation

Poetry is but a conversation we share

     with ourselves, casual talk of the life we’ve forgotten,

     tucked away into the recesses of memory

     for days like today, in solitude remembering

     who we were – then – and wondering, perhaps,

     how we got to now, giving up, as we did,

     as we had to – time’s requirement –

     giving up our youth to age,

     young love and innocence, reckless daring,

     lost in growing up, growing away

     into the recesses of memory

     for days like today, in solitude remembering.

A Ripple Begins

Early mornings, before the wind
and others, sleeping late, arise,
the lake is smooth, mirrored,
glass, the calm of water sleeping,
perhaps dreaming undisturbed, and
waking slowly, warmed by morning’s light,
a ripple begins -- a fish breaking the surface feeding,
a bubble formed below rising, to burst
and break the smoothness, or the wake of a loon,
like me, alone, rising early,
beginning, today, this day
waking, warmed by morning’s light,
a ripple beginning.

Wandering Through October’s Woods

In forest gloom, wandering a path

through October’s woods,
subdued now by seasons’ changing --
summer to fall and a hint of winter’s
cold and snow approaching --
my footfalls are steady, and quiet
save for the rustle of dry leaves fallen,
stirred up, a snap of broken twig,
or a bird’s lone cry,
a distant calling, unanswered,
echoing in the bosky woods, the shadows
closing around me, taking me in,
till I stop, my thoughts, wandering and scattered,
drawn down, downward to mud-hardened earth,
halting me, to find below my step, his,
a single cloven print, broad, dug deep,
a moose’s passing here, unseen and heard
in Springtime’s wetness, preserved
and drawing me to now, this moment,
a journey taken through October’s woods,
subdued myself by seasons’ changing,
summer to fall and a hint of winter approaching.