Winter is coming

Within the farthest reach of Summer,
Stone still warm from midday slumber,
The Land inhales the last
Of the great Sun’s past heat
And holds Her breath before
She gives in and admits defeat.

With the turning of a leaf autumn is here,
Heavy with fruit and offering to freely give
The harvest of the year.
And all withdraw into the mellow mists,
Into their homes, to the beginning,
Below the earth, to sleep, to rest.

I, too, sink slowly down, thoughts turned inwards,
Tending to my dreams, tending the small flame
Against a deeper darkness, greater silence.
And I wait – for in this stillness I can feel
Winter is coming.

© jsmorgane (Nov 2011)

Grating away

Heater working noisily against
The howling wind outside.
It’s ripping at the edges,
It’s crawling in over the window pane,
Sliding between wood and glass
Into the overheated room.

The snowflakes horizontal –
Like a train streaming by
Too quickly to wave a welcome
To the passengers inside.
No tracks visible to follow
Their way into the distance.

The New York Times yield no result,
The search engine neither.
The review, bitter cold,
Was lost on the way.
The one I’m reading now is overheated,
My cheeks burn red, and I shiver.

© jsmorgane (Jan 10)