Most birds have flown away
skies are gray,
and it's a cold wind
in which the trees sway
the tractor rusts in the shed
and the farmer rusts in bed;
the painter lays down his brush
from the poet there's only hush
The melancholy and the ill
(the poor and raw of hand)
know winter as the well cannot;
they feel the outer chill
and they know the inner rot
It is not a season of light
but of struggle in the night,
a time of taxes and the taxed,
for perservering...
or re-considering
And though we've seen
joys, troubles and seasons pass before,
such as are mortal
must see one winter more
Comments
skinner_jennifer | March 4, 2011 - 09:15
Hi seannelson,
I like this poem, it cunjures up winter so well.
Jenny.
ScoZen | March 4, 2011 - 13:04
I liked this piece.
Very visual, I can imagine the scene in oil painting.
"...the tractor rusts in the shed...
insertponceyfre... | March 4, 2011 - 14:02
bleak and sad and tired - you've captured it in this poem
Highhat | March 4, 2011 - 20:58
Another picture poem Sean. . sad and yes bleak and dismal
;)Pia
seannelson | March 5, 2011 - 04:13
Hey guys, thanks. Well, the poem isn't a product of overthought melancholy: just a spontaneous burst of depression. Actually, writing is therapy for me and that's a big part of why I do it. But I am, despite circumstances not being bad, more down than usual and I appreciate you showing up for me.
regards,
Sean