When I’m Waiting for Winter


I twist
in winds,
like a tree,
arthritic,
and reluctant
for anywhere
not where it is.

Happiest
in the silence
of dark roots,
fingers drinking
cold, endless soil.
Cemented with
wet friendly earth.

My words, leaves
bristling to fly
the few feet
it takes autumn
to shrivel their brittle
world
to dryness.

I wait
for winter,
when I stand
naked,
imagining
the green buds
of a new poem.

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30 thoughts on “When I’m Waiting for Winter

  1. may those new poems come in time…often it takes us getting naked…i know the feeling in that first stanza…but as the roots sink a bit i get a bit more comfortable…

  2. I guess we all wait for something. When it’s too hot we want cold, and vice versa. I must say living here in Atlantic Canada though, I do not wait winter at all….LOL There are some lovely lines in this invoking great images, especially of leaves, breaking free only to live a short time before drying up and soon after dying. Lovely prose.

    • It was a bit of a bloody effort! Had to batter in some pretty big nails to get it hanging together safely! I’m glad it’s done now and I can throw it onto the pile of poems in the woodshed of the Diary! 🙂

  3. “My words, leaves
    bristling to fly
    the few feet
    it takes autumn
    to shrivel their brittle
    world
    to dryness.”

    Ahh, that my “writers block’ would only lead to words as lovely as this! Thoroughly enjoyed the reading too. Nicely penned, sir, beautiful capture!

  4. Love this:

    “My words, leaves
    bristling to fly
    the few feet
    it takes autumn
    to shrivel their brittle
    world
    to dryness.”

  5. Getting naked is the only way to really write, especially poetry! Wait… that doesn’t sound right!

    Wonderful words!

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When I’m Waiting for Winter


I twist
in winds,
like a tree,
arthritic,
and reluctant
for anywhere
not where it is.

Happiest
in the silence
of dark roots,
fingers drinking
cold, endless soil.
Cemented with
wet friendly earth.

My words, leaves
bristling to fly
the few feet
it takes autumn
to shrivel their brittle
world
to dryness.

I wait
for winter,
when I stand
naked,
imagining
the green buds
of a new poem.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

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