Looking out into the grey
Dismal December skies
Bleak and empty,
Absent of geese -
Lacking their squawking,
Missing their presence
Chilly winds murmuring
A penetrating cold
Sole evidence of Life
Viewed as Death
Interred beneath the snow -
Frozen in the flower pots,
And now deserted gardens
Defeated and abandoned
And then forgotten,
Like refugees from dog days
And Indian Summer
No one grieves them now
Spending all our time
Bundled like mummies,
Until Resurrection Day
In the Spring
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