The black walnut a gnarled hand, stretched heavenward
with swollen joints, lording over sleeping poppies and forgotten marigolds.
The calming scent of lavender a distant memory,
replaced with a sudden sharpness upon inhaling.
Summer’s oasis, tightly wrapped,
protective gates adorned with a delicate veil of glistening diamonds.
The spade and shovel, off-duty sentries at ease in the shed,
await their spring employ, apt bastions of the garden are they.
August’s bounty, stalks and fruit a decaying graveyard,
in frozen loam beneath pristine icing, bracing for Jack Frost’s final sting.
Lacy pines flutter, a bashful girl’s eyelashes bat a flurry of crystals into a swirling current.
Are they flirting with the Old Man?
The silence is deafening but for the clickety clack of naked oaks protesting each exhale.