Behold the handicrafts of God,
observe now as his Winter looms,
stitch needled specks of crystal white.
Each weaving flawless,
thick piled blankets,
all across the three day stubble
of earth's craggy face forlorn,
hiding where the corn was shorn.
All of the finest syrup's been labeled,
gleaned sap tapped, from sugar maples,
Trees that weeks ago
were bent in festive dance.
Long limbs thrashing in
October's wood smoked breeze,
amidst confetti, swirling round them
red and orange.
These same trees that held sweet nectar
lined the lanes in crimson splendour,
leading to my humble home.
They're all barren now, save for
their tiny tear shaped buds emerging,
from where fallen leaves broke free.
Buds that patiently await
the distant call of natures urging,
when they'll stretch
to taste the nursing clouds,
of Spring at last reborn.
No more furrows line the foreheads,
of old farmers who've reaped bounties,
lines that once were deep enough to match,
the fresh plowed soil they'd turned.
This years harvest brought them plenty,
unlike other seasons learned,
All those empty husks where they'd sought
cornucopias of cash.
Still I'm wishing I could hibernate,
like bears and sleeping squirrels,
near a fire filled with round logs,
fatter then my Auntie's pasta.
I would snooze away the Winter,
near my dearest darling curled,
only stirring when the wood stove
bids me feed it's gaping maw,
hickory slices from my saw..
But my son begs me to join him
in a tousle headed frolic
on his high that's metabolic,
in our homestead so bucolic.
Coaxing this old workaholic
from poetic thoughts symbolic,
mixed with daydreams melancholic,
so I'll shed my slipper shoes
and go to wrestle off my blues.
© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III