(February 2, 1992)
strikes not for long,
last week's snow lingers, fitfully,
peppered with boot- and paw-prints, sparsely.
Buildings in my youth much-used and cared-for
abandoned, abused, rotted, broken, and scrawled upon, much.
Running water... no, wind heaving, deceiving, rattles stubborn oak-leaves;
a dear-name (once spoken often), carved summer-past, stares at me;
above, a plane dronesawaybelow, a train whistles, whistles, whistles....
A barge drones and whistles on the river, trudging far
but water does run here, under-trickling thin crackling ice;
grass and myrtle are green next the stream;
a lone bird pipes once, twice... off
then, sudden, there it is, inexplicable:
faint on the soft breeze,
the scent of roses
as I walk
E. L. Core
© 1992 ELC