It Isn’t Over

Winter doesn’t know when it’s over.
It doesn’t know it isn’t Spring,
Summer or Autumn. In fact, they’ve
never even been properly introduced.
They just bump into one or the other
one day, not knowing who they are,
where they’re going or what day it is.
It’s scientists and poets who like to think
they recognize what the seasons are
all about, who give silly names to storms
and overly dramatic voices to the winds.
But we’re really not sure if
another tomorrow will greet us or if
we’ll ever meet our soul mate.
We may bump into that someone one day
on the street, pass in a flash
of sunlight on the highway,
not a name or warm touch exchanged.
Oh well, it’s mid-February and
the grass lies open to Winter’s
bright smile in the azure sky.
Snow hides in the shadow places
like some criminal, when all it did
was remind a poet he can only capture
the “close enough” of what
he thinks he knows of these days.
And, really, he doesn’t know
anything for certain other than
the big ambiguous It isn’t over yet.

And Sometimes How

The season must’ve changed because
there you are again.
Every time I feel that first burst
of the What, When and Where
of climatic change,
I know the Why of your Who
will blow full
my thoughtful sails today.
Is it my first sensing
of those lacy spring blossoms’
or the panting earthy exhalations
of autumn’s leaves?
Is it the heady summer sweat
that chills me,
or the icy bite of winter
that flashes warm through my body?
Are they reminding me of those
foolish feelings and misdirected dreams?
Those are rhetorical questions, actually.
I don’t need answers because
tomorrow it just won’t matter.
And I’ve long since sailed past
the self-inflicted How of it all

A new free-write from the past-informed fiction side of my head. And maybe my once-romantic reporter’s soul.

All My Septembers

We both arrived at the end of summer,
marking that second season’s demise
and the birth of the third, the one where
shadows learn to be longer again.
I’ve cast such shadows all of my seasons
since that first September, even though
I too scrape barely thirty days tall.
In the ninth month, this first son always
is reminded that my days diminish,
leaking light with each fallen page.
It’s then I pull this last summer sun
closer, wrap it around myself like
autumn blankets, holding off those
soon-enough slugabed sunrises, hoping
to keep the longest shadows at bay.

Like Ink Fallen Upon a Wet Page

Maybe I heard it in
the whispered drip of a dream,
spring trying to write
its story around the trees
and across the field.
In the dim near light
before dawn pulled its covers,
some primal push awakened me,
ushering me to the window.
Out where snow held sway
for ninety days, a blank page
upon which each day
I wrote you letters unsent,
dark spots grew almost while
I watched. And with morning’s sun,
I saw a different darkness,
like drops of ink fallen upon
a wet page, blossom into
the hope of new life,
come some April morning.

A Rumor of Spring

This last March night, I stand
beneath a black ceiling of clouds
as they break and flow
across the sky, allowing a peek
at the moon and she upon me.
They’re heavenly echoes
of the river ice, once a mass
of winter rigidity, now cracking
and whispering downstream
certain secrets kept for too long.

New whispers, a quietly
cacophonous accompaniment,
inform my reverie. They approach
on the south wind, as new cloud-cracks
reveal the silhouetted band
marching northward across the sky.
I shiver, not so much
from the cold, but because
this flapping pennant affirms
the river’s rumor of spring.

New 100-word drabble shared with dVerse gang, who are looking for poems of animals as portents of good or bad news. To me, there’s little better than the news that after this long rough Winter, Spring–real, warm, green-up Spring–is near.


frozen sunrise

frozen sunrise (Photo credit: Grapfinger)

I awoke this morning,
peeked through the curtains
and saw this house had gotten old
its roof gone all salt and pepper,
it’s boards creaking with the cold,
and its chimney steaming some miasma
I’m sure it didn’t yesterday.

The neighborhood’s shoulders wore
some of the fallen silver
and flakes of white, and
the whole tableaux seemed
shrouded in slate-gray clouds
cast in a penumbra
so dark I couldn’t read
that big E from only a few paces.

But then you opened your eyes,
the lids parting a passageway
for a sweet light to escape
the shadows of age, and I saw
in them the reflection of this house,
its roof black and smooth again,
its walls strong and whose windows
I now cast open to call Good Morning.

© Joseph Hesch 2012

The roof really WAS covered in a salt & pepper-like snow this morning. (Unfortunately, no time to take a photo.) My age-obsessed imagination took it from there. 🙂:)