Thursday Poem - Waiting Game

Just as it seems the weather could not be
greyer or more dismal than November,
December comes along with wreaths of frost
and hangs on every tree the ragged crepe

of black leaves mourning for the wasted year.
But I have seen these funerals before,
and so I think of you, my dear old love,
of breathing ground, of sleeping roots and bulb,

the simple garden of our gathering years.
No matter now how fast and furious
the bitter dark comes on, I am not fooled.
I've witnessed resurrection every spring.

The winter birds are round and boisterous,
jousting for seeds at feeders with snow hats,
The ice man melts his fingers on their hearts,
Small miracles with wings beguile us now.

Dolores Stewart Riccio