Saturday, December 29, 2007
At Year's End
At Year's End
It is winter,
and all the summer blossoms--
the peonies, the dahlias, and even
the humble daisies--
have gone below,
their beauty fled
into winter quarters,
where they hide their heads
and wait,
curled like small animals in their caves.
There is a whiteness everywhere,
blank pages of snow
waiting to be inscribed
by crow's feet,
a smoothed tablet,
an alabaster sky
unimpeded by clouds.
Everything is hushed, expectant,
wondering if spring
will come round again this year,
what new message it will bring,
what we will write
on our as yet unsullied scrolls.
Dorothy Walters
December 29, 2007
