December and into January in the garden is a pause in all the action. Images repeat with hope pricking slowly through the cold hard soil.
This poem I hope captures some of that pent up energy, twitching on the start line, awaiting the gun
Wherever we place our faith, in God or nature or another’s face
Once verdant boughs now sad skinned wraiths begrudge permissive youth its place
December’s death has gripped the land, once luscious leaves just left to rot
Brittle skeletal, hope’s becalmed in our lost Eden that God forgot
We fight the urge to hurry past, desert cold Earth under pleated sky
And turn away from its last gasp, all dry and seer where no cloud will cry.
Yet stop we must, hope’s always there in amongst this season’s dying
It draws us close, it makes us care as life prepares for a new year’s living.
Spring forecloses on Winter’s debt, enough to pay for Summer’s lease
Succour comes borne on a breath that turns the key for each year’s release.
mind you, Dog doesn’t care…