Fertile sun whips through
lifeless plants marked
by winter, summer skies
brushed with numbing winds.
Window shades block the sun,
lines demarcating white walls.
Mother Nature sleeps, her lips
pressed firmly together.
Mountains rise to block the city
in a time warp of pine
and ornaments. Blinking
lights distract a driver,
colorful trees set aflame,
cheap gifts betrayed
in snowless streets. Dried
leaves scrape against
the cheeks of autumn.
As ruby red dies to brown,
I watch the rewind of spring
to winter, to this: frozen
rain pounding from smirking
skies. Every breath hatches
fog, and the city falls into place.
Will autumn’s cold ever rise into
a newly born world?
Deidre Grotbo
