A midwinter’s autumn

The morn stirs the spirit of the pond,
Of all living things-
The heron, the frog, the silver fish swim,
The tongue of the water licks
The sleeve of the sun;
A wind cold on the dancing frost,
A boat moored in time’s covenant.

The smell of winter
Of snow,
Reeds movements altered
In the hour,
Fading of sparrows
Wings
Over the dull façade
Of quiet
Currents.

In a pasture
And the weed
A mouse
Running from the
Eye and mouth
Of the storm,
Seeks haven in
The hedgerow.

A fading sun, now a stranger. …dead
Leaves rattling in the dusk;
Descending snow, quietly quietly
Folding on the ground
The pond- in the distance, the
Wood sap quivers;
Autumn gapes at the vanity of the toil.

Copyright © 11/13/2016 lance sheridan®

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