No illusions, no illusions, no lies, no softened truth
no tears, no bargains, though sun shines and birds sing,
Winter is here, I know.
Winter is too smart to invite either love or lechery,
and those men, husbands or lovers, long for someone
not as inclined to ponder – as one man complained –
while I watched the grass die, the leaves dry, the earth harden,
a cool wind blowing across the bodies that house our souls.
Annoying them with that question …
Once Spring danced like wild flowers in the wind,
held dew and promise and smiled like a well-fed child.
It had never heard the word defeat and didn’t know hate or anger.
Spring liked to play, and romp, and sing and
hung on a tree to ripen, her question
Summer took itself seriously,
was wide-eyed with longing, sizzling in the sun.
It wore a red dress and
the champagne happiness of a husband and baby
Summer was as brave as youth is bold,
a silver bell that rings and rings and never stops.
So much and more than enough . .
and yet – a tremulous
Autumn gently smiled, like Da Vinci’s lady, and danced old dances,
reminisced Begin the Beguine, stepping lightly on brown leaves.
It was lined with gold and muted silks, remembered is manners,
nodded wisely, spoke sagaciously , and was a might too profound.
Haughty. . . it just knew it knew
Oh! But Winter…
Winter is content, sees itself in Time displaced and learned
laughter has meaning as fleshy bonds and boundaries dissolve.
A bit stiff, cold, and slow now, slowing to honor the sacred,
to say “i love you,” to say “it was good,” to say “thank you.”
Sun rise, sun set, and once dormant trees burst forth with green,
sanguine and serene, just a habit now that question
– Jamie Dedes
(c) 2010, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; Photograph courtesy of John Witherspoon, Public Domain Pictures.net.