A cloudy moonless night,
Warmish, with crickets still
Celebrating Indian Summer
In our high western desert.

But, the garden is dead, and
I scrape frost each morning
Before I drive to town;
Maple leaves are falling.

Yet with its impatient hope,
Its endless expectation,
This eleventh month
Is also much like Spring.

"When will it finally come?"
"With what show of force?"
"How much will there be?"
"How long will it last?"

These are days of frosty Gold,
Of expectation of the Silver--
And an inward thankfulness
If only for a continued present.

12/29/2005

Author's Note: With thoughts of those in Brigham City

Posted on 12/30/2005
Copyright © 2024 Leonard M Hawkes