Signs of Winter

A scattering of leaves on snow-shrouded grass,

A print of soft lines etched by the wind,

A whistling whisper signed through the trees

Tell that white winter has come to pass.

Spring Morning

Mauve splashes, smudged across the sky,

Have a purple tint and a pale hint

That the sun is getting high;

The rolling hills, like slopes of gentle thighs,

Are touched with silk and snow, like milk,

And after the soft grade comes a slow rise;

Old wooden posts, aged by the years,

Like men, attend as to defend

Their land from all their fears

Which they still in the clear, early hours of spring.

My Summer Daze

The sun, sprinkling about me in little drops of light,

Sifts through the boughs of the tree

Above me.

The wind runs its fingers through my hair

And softly touches the side of my face

With lace.

The grass, showered by the dew rain of the morn,

Cools and refreshes me as I lay in so deep

A sleep.

Death in Autumn

The leaf, once a warm budding sprout, is now cold:

He is brittle and coloured for he is old;

He knows his life is finished as he closes his eyes,

Drifts into that endless sleep, and dies.