Long Seasonshouse Poems
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In the yard across the way there stands a young delightful maple tree.
Oh in the hot summer......when the hot breeze blows, I watch it as it sway it's green whipfull
leaves, blowing with the breeze to an ultimate degree.
If the spring winds are harsh then it bends it's limbs limberly over toward the ground.
When the winds are mild it just waves it's branches to me cheerfully.
As if it's waving to say. "The weather is fair today."
The ground around it, uprooted, uneaven and even rather bumpy and clumpy.
The condeming of the burnt house that near it once stood, as it left its broad scars upon the
scortched land.
It now leans a bit away from where the house once stood, as it seemed to cry when that
house burt that day some years ago, but it lingers growing still strong and tall today.
It has not yet lost it's leaves, even with the strongest evil breeze this year.
It still grasps it's leaves tight to it's branches
For it is now February and still holds its many crisp brown leaves.
Why have they not fallen off, as all the other trees?
It is much stronger and laughs at the winter saying." You are not harsh enough for me."
The snow rests on its branches today as the cold winds blow. It seems so odd to see a tree
with leaves covered in snow.
But the white blanket of snow rests snuggly upon the leaves, as it does to its strong
branches.
This tree, it is my nearby friend when I am alone, as I gaze over the lawn at it from my
window.
Yes, it even in the strongest cold breeze, sometimes waves at me..... but still now nare a
leaf has fallen to the ground from its many limbs.
It seems to me so strange and odd the leaves have not yet fallen.
Even in that, as a close friend would, gives me challenge to wander, why?
Linda Terrell
February 15, 2010
This is a fiction story but I do have this unusual tree in my neighbors yard.
It holds tightly to it's own dry brown crisp leaves still in the dead of winter.
(This is in remembrance of the days running up to Christmas in an Anglo-Indian home in a small town in
India. Some of the words are distinctly Anglo-Indian. I wonder if there is anyone on Poetry Soup who can
relate?)
It’s a December evening, we’re back from school
The house feels nippy for a breeze, nice and cool
Wafts through the trellis, while Papa gives a rendition
Of carols that herald an annual family tradition
Mummy’s come back with bread, eggs and flour
We little children, get ready for many an interesting hour
Of digging our fingers into a tub full of batter
As the house vibrates with loud, cheerful chatter
It’s that time again, that time of the year
For, cul-culs and cake and Christmas’ cheer
To roll out on forks, an Anglo-Indian delight
And to grease the cake tins with all our might
As Mum-mum calls out for us to ‘take care
Or we might fall into the oil that’s boiling there’
Which is ready, of course, to splutter and crackle
As we dip in forked creations of eggs, flour and butter
The whole family sits at the dining room table
Each one doing what he or she is able
And stories are told of Christmases past
While ros-a-cookies are into the boiling oil, cast
When the whipping and blending has been done
And the cake’s in the oven, it is time for more fun
So we lick our fingers with many a hearty smack
As we enjoy this tasty pre-cooked snack
That comes for us, only once every year
A time that is filled with memories dear
As carols croon in the chill evening air
And family stories, Papa, does joyfully share
It’s been years now, since I have had such fun
And I hope, I can, one day relive it with my son
Those hours spent in a house on a railway colony
Hours that I now recall, with a smile and much glee.
Hours that have since made nostalgia smile
Hours that have made childhood worth the while.
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