The pen
in the
hands
of the
old man
Hands
light and spotted
as
long-forgotten
ancient scrolls
on a
dusty shelf
Hands
that will soon
crumble to pieces
in
time’s cruel crucible
He takes
his thoughts
and
writes them down
They are as
stones
in the path
to mark his life
and its
passing
His pages
become much like
his crumbling
hands,
long-forgotten
until
A curious mind
plucks his thoughts
like ripe berries
from the dusty
shelf.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
Ere long, the North Wind’s Kiss
too soon will come.
Her constellations gather
with joyful anticipation, for
her Kiss
brightens their stars,
and drapes them in all their
celestial finery.
The fleeing sun trips, and
drops its light.
Extinguished now, and
shows its belly
to the freezing night
that savages, with cold fangs,
its crimson carcass to
warmer climes.
She smiles, and betrays us with a kiss.
The red blush
of berries and cardinals’ feathers
hide
the treacherous blue
of her
frosty lips.
Around her,
a cloak of virgin snow
trimmed with
crystals of ice.
In one hand,
a bough of evergreen,
the scepter
that bows not to the
bitter wind,
her chill herald.
She comes in all her
dread and fearsome
Majesty
to drive us to
our hearths,
our blankets, and
our graves.
And lays
another tender, loving hand
across the seeds
of
Spring
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
Beyond Panic 