The hard killing frost always meant that it was time to squirrel hunt.
Smoke fingers lifted high in the clear crisp Valley air.
Passing down through the hollows
Crossing creeks
The soft crunch of wet leaves releases the scent of an ancient forest.
If the hunt is successful or not matters little. The passage of time is the bounty of the morning.
THE KILLING FROST
ReplyDeleteseptember comes and everybody tells me
that means things inescapable
the green trees change
no matter how much
i have loved their greenness
the shade the apples the sugar
and the music they made
at night in the rain
where we stood
alone
a writer writes eternal springs as reality
as wishes as come to life
but really the killing frost is what is contagious
laughing at my dream
to hold onto spring
and when the silent earth
is covered in ice
and spring brings its warming water of asking
to my lips
will it find me frozen and freezing.