When Summer is gone along with substantial flowers,
a lingering memory, I wonder “were you here at all?”
It will only be, in each new Spring reviving,
that the iris near the tear duct blooms.
When Summer is gone and leaves float downstream
blains renew with a chill in the air,
and the maples and oaks lose
their grief stricken hues.
When Summer is gone, that means Spring too,
then Fall is the midpoint so far from you,
as the years yield their acorn pelts
I pumpkin-kiss and miss you.
When Summer is gone and the “I love you,” is silent,
in the deep drifts of the Winter white blanket,
still I hear your motherly voice in the wind,
emphatically reap your snowdrop smile.
I've got aches and pains and chills and blains,
Arthritis, Bursitis and more.
If it weren't for this darn Sciatica,
I'm sure it would hurt even more.
I have dizzy spells, sometimes I hear bells,
I see colors and floaters galore.
Can't move my left shoulder, guess I'm getting older,
I can't find a place that ain't sore.
One thing keeps me going and that is just knowing,
That it isn't all in my head.
This pain is a blessing though fortitude testing,
It's a sure sign I'm not dead...…..
Yet
Come now, you days so dreary,
with thoughts mundane and weary.
Both windy rain and bitter cold,
find comfort in blains and days of old.
To sit and sigh and wonder why
this if and when the eyes are dry
and the coals no longer lit are pale
in the wake of stormy frozen gale.
Until the frost is no longer on the glass
neither inside, outside in stormy blast.
And the Spring thaw comes in strident strain
to greet us with warmth and smiles again.
It lays a comfort blanket on us in haste as
we smile inside ourselves...what a waste!!!
While sitting we muse upon our fate....
Glad it rests not in the hands of a potentate
My thought for tonight, anno dominie Jan 23, 2019
Charles Grady Henderson
A Snow day comes.
Snowfall impedes our mobility.
Now some venture out to test their ability.
Our streets and yards are pristine white.
We're trapped 'neath Winter's cold, grey light.
Don't venture out on a day like this,
As Old Man Winter shakes his fist.
You wait for the snow plough, this is no jest.
Come bake some cookies or play a board game;
Or shovel the walk way till you've got the blains.
Most hunker down by the fire to stay warm.
Even rabbits stay in on this chilly morn.
Sigh!