December

December

The distant pines, too prickly to brush,

the closest breeze that you can touch.

the sun is hot and round and yellow,

the coolest stream so dark and mellow.

Caw! Caw! the crows call, desperately weak;

bugs moths and beetles will soon be their treat.

the wind slashes by, stabbing each tree,

rushing on through, on path to the sea.

the ponds become chilled, the banks become dead,

the clouds are now thirsty, their last raindrops shed.

the kin of the fields have all gone away,

the birds flying south ’til the first dawn of May.

Now as I must go now, friends, remember

this poem I wrote in mid-December…

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