December, when the weather chills,
and leaves depart their mother trees
the land dissolves its yearlong ills
and cheery dispositions fill
all space that’s now made free.
And all the trees in all the woods
and forests growing silently
bereft of their once verdant hoods
like old men where once children stood
they bow to snow compliantly.
Yet here in clean sepulchral white
undaunted grow the fir and pine
a green that shows as though in spite
of cold and brutal lengthy nights
that numb the hands and chill the spine.
And, too, the holly still abides
through icy winds and clouds of gray
it’s berries, red and sanctified
impervious to sharp collide
of winter winds from far away.
Well, Here are some little ditties I tossed up at Ilaria’s request after three lunches a month ago.
Cardboard Rhino 