Seasons
These
were the clean white prairies of your birth.
So
much winter for the picture window,
Snowflakes
that mirror the likeness of mirth,
Your
heart’s soil is a cup overflown
With
silver ladling of her country laugh.
How
her green shoot of a boy from the white
Reminded
her of the long year’s green half.
Horses
rage beyond the snow, beyond night.
Is
the picture window a darkened mirror
Tonight?
What tall figure’s shape strides within?
Youth’s
years have gone. Age’s autumn is here
And
September’s grim harvest must begin.
Will
you give him a coin for the final
Crossing,
or leap the fire of fondest sin?
Excellent, Michael! Keep posting your new poems.
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