Archives for posts with tag: seasons

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MID-MARCH
by Lizette Woodworth Reese

It is too early for white boughs, too late
For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall
A few last flakes, ragged and delicate.
Down the stripped roads the maples start their small,
Soft, ’wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks
A rich and deepening red. The willow tree
Is woolly. In deserted garden-walks
The lean bush crouching hints old royalty,
Feels some June stir in the sharp air and knows
Soon ’twill leap up and show the world a rose.

The days go out with shouting; nights are loud;
Wild, warring shapes the wood lifts in the cold;
The moon’s a sword of keen, barbaric gold,
Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud.

IMAGE: “Sunset in the forest in late winter” by wallpaper-million.com.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lizette Woodworth Reese (1856-1935) was born in Huntingdon (now Waverly), Maryland, to a Confederate soldier and his German wife. She attended Baltimore private schools and, upon graduating from high school, embarked on a nearly 50-year career as an English teacher in the Baltimore schools. Her first poetry collection, A Branch of May (1887), brought wide recognition. She published an additional eight volumes of poetry, two long narrative poems, two memoirs, and one autobiographical novel. In 1931 she was named poet laureate of Maryland, and was granted an honorary doctorate from Goucher College.

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EXHALING WINTER
by Diane Eagle Kataoka

Snow retreats up mountain walls
pulled on a timed tether
 
Grasses and brush spring back
to vertical
avalanching winter’s skin
 
Along a rivulet, pale shoots test the air
while catkins of aspens
shiver in silver light
 
I smell spring long before color
flushes tree and ground
 
Tentative breaths still redolent
with winter’s waning chill
ride over my skin
 
Whispering a promise of warmth
Inhale gently
gaining green. 

“Exhaling Winter” by Diane Eagle Kataoka appears in the Silver Birch Press Silver Anthology — a 240-page collection of poetry, short stories, novel excerpts, stage play scenes, and essays from 62 accomplished and up-and-coming authors in the U.S. and U.K. — available at Amazon.com.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Diane Eagle Kataoka lives at eight thousand feet in the Eastern Sierra, where she skis and hikes. A researcher for the late Leon Uris (Trinity and The Haj), she was director of marketing and communications for the Music Academy of the West, as well as editor-in-chief of the Mammoth Times and Mammoth Sierra Magazine. She is currently a freelance writer and editor, poet and blogger. (Visit her blog at mammothlakesview.com.) Diane’s chapbook Snow Globe,published by Two Birds Press, is a poetic history of five seasons in a mountain ski town.

 

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DECEMBER MOON
by May Sarton

Before going to bed

After a fall of snow

I look out on the field

Shining there in the moonlight

So calm, untouched and white

Snow silence fills my head

After I leave the window.


 
Hours later near dawn

When I look down again

The whole landscape has changed

The perfect surface gone

Criss-crossed and written on

Where the wild creatures ranged

While the moon rose and shone.


 
Why did my dog not bark?

Why did I hear no sound

There on the snow-locked ground
In the tumultuous dark?


 
How much can come, how much can go

When the December moon is bright,

What worlds of play we’ll never know

Sleeping away the cold white night

After a fall of snow.

Painting: Phoenix Arts Group, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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“Thanksgiving is the holiday of peace, the celebration of work and the simple life… a true folk-festival that speaks the poetry of the turn of the seasons, the beauty of seedtime and harvest, the ripe product of the year…” 

RAY STANNARD BAKER (1870-1946), one of the first investigative journalists, who also wrote books for children under the pseudonym DAVID GRAYSON

Drawing: “Harvest Moon,” pastel by Jamie Pitts, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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CHOICES
by Tess Gallagher

I go to the mountain side
of the house to cut saplings,
and clear a view to snow
on the mountain. But when I look up,
saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in
the uppermost branches.
I don’t cut that one.
I don’t cut the others either.
Suddenly, in every tree,   
an unseen nest
where a mountain   
would be.

 Photo: Byota Art, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

“Choices” appears in MIDNIGHT LANTERN: New and Selected Poemsby Tess Gallagher (Graywolf Press, 2011)

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tess Gallagher is a poet, essayist, and short story writer. She attended the University of Washington, where she studied creative writing with Theodore Roethke and later Nelson Bentley as well as David Wagoner and Mark Strand. Her honors include a fellowship from the Guggenheim Foundation, two National Endowment for the Arts awards, the The Maxine Cushing Gray Endowed Libraries Visiting Writers Fellowship (University of Washington), and the Elliston Award for “best book of poetry published by a small press” for the collection Instructions to the Double (1976). (Read more at wikipedia.org.)

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FALL
by Edward Hirsch

Fall, falling, fallen. That’s the way the season
Changes its tense in the long-haired maples
That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves
Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition
With the final remaining cardinals) and then
Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last
Settling into colorful layers carpeting the ground.
At twilight the light, too, is layered in the trees
In a season of odd, dusky congruences—a scarlet tanager
And the odor of burning leaves, a golden retriever
Loping down the center of a wide street and the sun
Setting behind smoke-filled trees in the distance,
A gap opening up in the treetops and a bruised cloud
Blamelessly filling the space with purples. Everything
Changes and moves in the split second between summer’s
Sprawling past and winter’s hard revision, one moment
Pulling out of the station according to schedule,
Another moment arriving on the next platform. It
Happens almost like clockwork: the leaves drift away
From their branches and gather slowly at our feet,
Sliding over our ankles, and the season begins moving
Around us even as its colorful weather moves us,
Even as it pulls us into its dusty, twilit pockets.
And every year there is a brief, startling moment
When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and
Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless
Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air:
It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies;
It is the changing light of fall falling on us.

PAINTING: “Autumn Maple” by Eric Bachman. Prints available at fineartamerica.com.

olgaw101
Autumn Offering
by Judith A. Lawrence

I shall be Autumn
this Halloween,
with leaf draped skirt,
and folds of
boysenberry velvet wine
flowing to the ground.

Brown stained face,
eyes rimmed in gold,
nails dripping sunset,
a crown of twigs
to cover my head.

You may gather from me
the spring of my youth,
my summer of maturity,
and hold onto with me,
the solace of these days
of remembering
before the frost.

Photo by OlgaW101.

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OCTOBER
by Robert Frost

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.
***
Watercolor by Laura Trevey. Prints available at brika.com.

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AUTUMN HAIKU
by Yosa Buson (1716-1784)

on the mountain crests
a line of wild geese
and the moon’s seal

Photo: Miparr61, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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AUTUMN
Poem by Amy Lowell

All day I have watched the purple vine leaves
Fall into the water.
And now in the moonlight they still fall
But each leaf is fringed with silver.

Illustration: Zelda Richardson, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED