methow grist 2011-2014 archive

Season's End

At season’s end,
There is little more we can do.
The fields are brown,
The pipes drained,
And the hay tarps
Taut with anticipation.
The Linden, Larch, and Locust, too,
Are waiting,
Shed of their graceful modesty,
Arms open
To whatever winter brings
With his return –
Quarrelsome winds
With their gossip
Of who said what to whom,
The bristle of frost
And tears that follow,
The forgiving kiss
Of a bright, clear morning.

David Asia’s online poetry collection is
‘Conjugating the Verb To Be: The Poetry of Time and Place’



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