I wrote this poem 2 or 3 years ago, was reading it again today, and felt like posting it.
My window frames a melancholy portrait of nature’s slumber,
Reminiscent more of Hollywood’s Halloween than of an impending Thanksgiving.
Stark gray clouds bleakly decorate the early afternoon sky,
Which hangs ominously above skeletons of dark and sleeping trees.
Their lonely naked perches extend sharply in every possible direction,
Stabbing and jabbing at the frigid air embracing them.
Leaves, once rich reds and golds, now shades of auburn,
Dart furiously within wintry wind, as if late for their final resting place.
Thickly stuffed coats are pulled up over hunkering earlobes,
Protecting pedestrians from the heavens’ promise of liquid bombardment.
Warm in my window, I soak in the drama and reflect.
Does the squirrel, foraging for deposits of acorns and filberts,
Know the sun will one day re-warm the earth beneath him?
Or, does he simply accept what comes,
Free of giddy expectation and bitter disappointment?