The hills are nearly silent—
A hermit-thrush calls.
The wood shed is almost full, and neatly stacked logs wait to be split. The last few flowers stand defiant, and the vegetable garden has been picked clean. There is little left to do now, but wait for winter.
Nearby mountain tops
measure winter's progress—
summer's losing ground.
The summer people are long gone, and the road sits quietly, except for my passing. Trips to town will be less frequent. Visitors will be few and far between, and I'll ask myself many times why I stay.
Growing more restless
the geese circle one last time—
taunting as they flee.
© C.D Sinex
Topic(s) of this poem: autumn, autumnal equinox, migration, solitude, winter
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.