|
Vacuously I stare
into January skies,
as a gallivanting wind
caresses the roof
like a cat
rubbing serpentine
on the shingles.
The oak trees
sway and bow
doing a dance no one
interrupts.
Who I ask,
can gainsay such things?
The pale gray hued heavens
have no answer.
Frowzy,
blow left over
dowdy brown leaves,
making clumsy pirouettes
to the ground.
Fantasy's invention manifests
around the lawn,
as I sit drinking tea
by the fire and ponder
the countenance
of
January.
© By Lea (Leaway56@aol.com)
|
|
|
|
|
|
