Change of Seasons

Winter approaches
in thousand-foot increments
heralded by mountain-measuring
weathermen

Snow above ten thousand feet
flounces across peaks
frothy skirts from a period drama
Snow down to eight thousand feet
sends chills trickling down foothills
whispering across sandal-clad toes
athletes stand askew, weather eye
on peaks -- anticipating
fall’s icy end while
the squeals of sprinkler-dashing children
tangle in still-green 
leaves whose veins run red

At six thousand feet
closets are turned inside-
out come jackets and hats
gloves scatter across the floor
like sidewalk leaves
in preparation for
the next 
      great 
          step

At The End

In the midnight of our days

routines will have

fossilized. Fried eggs will grace

every breakfast plate. I’ll refuse

your daily offer of juice

There will be no more

surprises. Politics

will have rasped away our edges

loss rounded your rigid spine

contentment slowed my steps

Grandchildren

borrowed or begotten

will make up for cataracts

Through hearing aids

their shouts become tame gurgles

You will climb ladders

unsteadily, whittling

away my endless honey-do list

and read the newspaper aloud

while I knit

Shuffling between the accumulated
ghosts of long lives

we won’t speak much, but

Papery skin will whisper
of old love when

your hand grasps mine

And we peer blindly

into the darkness

from a prompt at Poets of G+

Celestial Choir

I imagine angels

wings like helicopters

thrumming reflected

by a sodden sky

voices rasped by indrawn smoke

exhaustion tempered

with hot coffee

riding four wheeled chargers

that in no way resemble

fiery steeds

peering out from careworn faces

waiting for us to recognize

the divine within