William had a whinging wife.
William was a fool.
When she begged him for some water,
For too wet her whistle.
William tossed her in the pool.
William’s wife Wilma,
Looked at life quite starkly.
She whimpered and she whined.
While William was the whimsical kind;
Full of whigmaleerie and malarkey.
William had the wherewithal,
Which made them quite wealthy.
Wilma was no whiffler,
And didn’t merely whinny.
She whinged about her William and his methodology.
(A Slant-rhyme Sonnet)
As autumn treads across our piebald patch,
she drops her frost to shelter, soft as wool,
but brilliant blossoms curl in moonlight watch
and shrink beneath the snap of hoarfrost cool.
Then every critter lodged inside the farm
begins to hide a hoard of winter chow,
use nature’s fabric fluff to cradle warm
and stash in cache beneath the muted show.
Persimmon limbs are bowed with orange loot
which deer desire if hunger leaves them poor.
The frost has signaled time as under foot
true sweetness swells at autumn’s open door.
I rush before the deer, with knife in hand
to read the seed as weather forecast wand.
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