Poets loves nature, not always REAL nature, but the idealized, “spiritual” human projection of nature. That’s OK, but I was thinking what it would be like to write a romantic nature poem about the OTHER side, not the dark side, but the unpoetic side (the dark side being, often, excessively poetic). So here’s an impromptu poem to the rhythm of the seasons.
My fingers are cracked from cold mountain air
There’s mud on my boots and splits in my hair
The dogs try to dig in the still frozen ground
They don’t get far, those miserable hounds.
The dry leaves of fall protect tender shoots
The truly brave plants, their undaunted roots (<== sorry about the personification)
I forgot what I planted that windy fall day
I hope they come up, that’s all I can say.
The dog poop of winter litters the trail
I dodge it adeptly, I hope without fail.
My big white dog rolls in small patches of snow
Each day it melts more, we both watch it go.
This is not to say that winter is done,
That won’t occur till the last frost has gone.
At this altitude, summer comes late,
And as I like winter, I’m willing to wait.
The simple fact is, it could snow any time,
Bringing more hoarfrost, even some rime.
More shoveling of driveways, walks and the like
But maybe today, I’ll go ride my bike.