20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


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Autumn

Autumn’s fingers poke into
blue skies, coloring trees
crimson, orange, yellow and gold,
dusting them with wealth,
expectation of change this time of year.
Frost soon,
gregarious announcer of winter
hunches with gray shoulders as
if it were a cat stretching. An odd
justice creeps over the land,
killing summer, erasing fall, and
lighting the landscape with white
moments.
No
October treasure remains.
Pilfered, we trudge on toward December
quietly, steadily, with
ragged
slicing
teeth cutting into growth
under the snows.
Violence erupts, blizzard
winds whip with
extraordrinary power,
yammering temperatures to
zero.


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Counting Days

Crescendos toward December sound, like wind
a-whooshing through the fall toward winter’s blast.
All elm tree foliage has come unpinned
and ground is covered in those crisps that last

until the earth’s adorned in gowns of white.
We march to our Thanksgiving, make big plans,
then Christmas shows its colors day and night.
We gather families and our friends, our clans

to celebrate. But what of days between?
What ordinary Tuesday strikes a chord
of music, makes us polish to a sheen
our house? We are the lady and the lord

of this, our manor, and we do not wait
for special times. Each one is special, yes,
and so we dust it off and note the date.
A tree, lake, note, a word means more, not less

as time plods on. Or does time race? I hold
the precious close without apology,
for I can feel it. I am getting old.
Please keep the lights bright on my life’s marquee.


The Worker

She blows the leaves into artistic heaps,
allowing not a crisp of brown to fall
upon her drive. When will the city haul
these leaf piles well away? No young child leaps

into her mounds of crackled yellow leaves.
I wonder at her need to keep so free
of Nature’s wind that blows them. I can see
the coming challenge: winter snow that cleaves.

 

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