Winter Comes

It’s night, and fall is upon us in earnest.
Last night, the winter galed through the yard
With a fury that rattled of crisis and desperation.

The blanketing leaves raked onto the gardens
Fled back to the lawn and then to the hedge.
Tucked in, the hedge now is bedded for winter.

Snow clinging wetly had urged leaves off
Once laden, powerline-threatening branches,
Now deceased arms, stretching out in despair.

Soon whispering flurries will enshroud it all.
Garden and hedge shall sleep beyond memory.
And the branches shall lose all awareness even of self.

About Jay C Ritterson
If I say nothing, it might be that I have nothing to say.

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