The Barren Times Poem by David Welch

After Halloween, but before the snow,
comes a stretch of time I know
as nothing more than the barren time,
a faded wash-out of northern climes.

Most folks hate it, they say as much,
Things get dark, turn to frozen muck,
but in open woods and leafless trees,
I've always found a stark beauty.

The undergrowth is now long dead,
and the secrets plain to watching heads.
Giant boulders, pitches and screes,
deer strolling amongst the trees.

The air is crisp and blessedly silent,
free of the buzzing of insects virulent,
leaves crack and crinkle, a dying rug,
and few if any bird-songs are sung.

It's as if life is put on pause,
momentarily free of nature's laws.
The wilderness becomes a still-life,
while man and beast await the white.

It ends too quickly as Christmas comes
and a million things have to be done,
but for a week or two it all is mine
the austere breath of the barren times.