A day indoors

It's a grey, rainy day in Vernon. I'm sitting inside wrapped in a blanket reading the poems I wrote in the late 70s and early 80s. Most of them are in a pile beside me waiting to be taken to the recycle bin, but there are a few I will keep here.

Seasons

Winter:
long, cold, barren,
beautiful dream of swift skis,
flushed cheeks,
sleeps beneath warm blankets,
the whistle of wind outside.

nightmare of skidding sludge
and trudging downtown
in salt-lapped leather boots,
nose dripping and dreaming of

Spring:
sun-warmed scents
of blossoms, bulbs, and buds
in bright green, pink and white

calves, colts and kids
testing their limbs
with the joy of Pinocchio
new-hewn from old wood
the fleetness of bootless feet
and then the heat of

Summer:
lazy, lowing, buzzing, growing
seemingly without effort.

The sun that swells my garden
lulls me through shoeless walks.
I am restored by warmth, cool drinks, deep water, alive for

Autumn:
regal show of purple and mauve
sovereign season of reaping
the golden reward.
The spider spins its web.
The loud and haunting chevron overhead completes
the circle of the seasons.
As burning fire-hues fall,
bare branches wait on winter.