Between Seasons

This was taken last year after the first snowfall. 

A tarnished pewter sky

peers through leafless branches

fog drifts and curls,

along the riverbanks and

hovers above the water,

where half a dozen geese float—

six dark shadows that

appear and disappear

as if they, too, were

only mist and imagination.

The last forlorn light

leaches from the afternoon.

Suspended between seasons

the days grow short.

The old year draws to a close

as though feeling its age.

Everything slows, quiets, fades,

until it seems the dreary days

will never end. Snow sweeps in,

making art of the drab browns,

the cheerless grays,

weighting the sad, dead grasses,

frosting every branch and twig

until the landscape looks luminous,

even on sunless days.

When it does shine, oh! the brilliance

of it, the dazzling radiance.

There is beauty in the passing

of one season to the next,

even in grim November.