It was not winter til the north wind blew.

 unfastening leaves and branches too. 

Revealing the secrets of spring long passed-

Songbird dwellings now known at last.

The chill of winter does bruise the reed,

 yet tenderly scatters its’ tiny seed.                                                                                               

Blackbirds pepper up the sky

 for they know winter cold is nigh.

Gardens look like empty rooms                                                                                                     

when void of anything that blooms,                                                                                             

and  a pasture , like a vacant lot,                                                                                                   

without the colt to dance a trot. 

The old oak stands with barren bough                                                                                           

fields lie untended by man and plow-                                                                                         

Behold the frozen ponds and lakes-                                                                                               

Oh, what a difference, winter makes! 

Happy Winter, love Michele

At last, I think it safe to say, that spring is finally here-

according to the sparrows, the robins and the killdeer,

They gather little trinkets to carry during flight-

and sing a joyful prelude, before the morning light.

The dogwood and azaleas bloom throughout the southern land-

and glory now abounds, by the “touch of the Masters’ Hand”.

The jasmine in the woodlands hangs like strands of golden rain-

and violets bloom in dappled light along the path again.

Tender grass and just born leaves, paint the world in jade-

and where the sun beams used to fall,   becomes a patch of shade.

To spend a day in early spring, brings our heart such cheer-

For all the earth does celebrate when spring is finally here!

Very far away from me,

across the wild and open sea,

A brave little daffodil blooms,- I know,

because a fairy told me so.

He asked the rose to come along-

and the coral bells to sing their song-

But only the brave little daffodil.

had the courage and the will.

And so one cold and dreary day,

when springtime seemed so far away,

The fairy spied his gift of gold-

blooming, in the world so cold-

and so she did , what we all should-

she shared, when she found something good.

A day in November is often born,

on  a frosty, foggy, chilly morn.

With the smell of  wood smoke in the air,

while  ruby leaves fall here and there.

The early light is soft, but yields,

a holy look to woods and fields.

A silent prelude heralds the day,

for song birds mostly flew away,

to somewhere north or south or west,

leaving behind their empty nests.

In November, without a rush, 

days are born in a silver hush,

like a precious gift, for all the living-

Let all of November be called Thanksgiving!