Reflections from the Farm

A blue winter rain
saturates the morning,
diluting the dream with mist and dripping. 
Muted sunrise 
clouds meaning and disturbs the certainty
that brought you to this moment.

Change is not always pretty.

I mean, look at molting.
Somehow, you’ve got to lose all those worn out feathers,
regrow new and shiny ones.

Gray tree frogs
who once announced the summer rains,
now lie frozen in dark December woods,
all but dead. 

Bare branches 
scribe interconnections on the sky. 
They could just as well be roots: 
an ecological genealogy. 

Trees in a frozen fog stand as sentinels over resting pasture.
Summer’s noisy haste has passed.