Seasons Poem by Peter Black

Seasons



In the winter we ate oats and grains,
Baked loaves on the hearth,
Counting our wood knowing it would not change,
Sleeping close together while outside,
The wolves bayed the winter's bane,
Feeling their ribs jutting out their sides,
As Papa guarded the herd all night.

In the spring, after the last frost,
We tilled the field, seeded the first crop,
Watching all around the sun come alive:
Trees shedding snow, the ground turn soft,
Seeing my shadow grow tall to short;
As we pushed the newborns to grow strong;
And my Mama started spinning yarn.

In the summer we set out wheat,
While my brother began chopping logs;
Each night we ate roasted meat,
While in the sky of night the figures told,
A million lives of names never saved,
In diamond points, behind a purple sheet;
The air was so milky with dew,
You could drink it off the tops of rocks.

In the fall we listened for the winds,
When rain would bring a hard chill,
Drag black boulders in a wall and charge;
We counted and measured our stores and stock,
Thinned the herds and pulled up the second crop;
I held my hand out for my sisters to see,
The first snowflake melt on my palm.

Monday, December 22, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: nature
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