MUSED Literary Magazine.
Poetry

Winter's Last Breath

Ken Allan Dronsfield

Walking through corn fields of frozen dead stalks
up to the hills, the rotting apples lying unclaimed
many deer tracks cover these meadows, the old
orchards are graveyard silent as a lone crow calls.

Another cold and hazy winter of dark graying skies
winds blowing snow through the bare oak trees
off to the east a train whistle is heard by the river
my thermos of hot coffee warms cold hands.

Truly blessed, as we have so much to be thankful,
watching chickadees and jays flutter in pine boughs.
Two squirrels are racing down the old wall of stone
as a lone falling snowflake lands soft on my cheek.

Days of Thanksgiving and Christmas are now gone,
the winter solstice whispers in a quivering voice.
loving lazy long hikes along the worn forest paths
take a little time skipping rocks on the frozen pond.

The knitted hat and scarf are so very welcome,
Grandmother knitted them so many years ago.
Winter taking itīs last breath, spring will soon arrive.
A blessed day in late winter, spent here on the plains.