WATERMARK

            The waxwings have come and gone.
            Blue stars open in the garden, a blue
            deeper than dusk. Seasonal worries
            are still a ways off: flooding rivers,
            drought in the fields, fire in dry woods.

            Fire leaping across the tops of trees,
            toward town. For now, as distant
            as World War III, and as close. We
            turn off our furnaces, shake out
            the rugs, sweep the bare floors.

            The ash trees, bereft of berries,
            push out buds. Squirrels dig
            in the unfrozen flower beds,
            searching out remnants of last
            year’s treasures. The house cat

            watches from the window. What
            do seasons mean to her? In an old
            woman’s memory, these years blur
            together. Once there were young
            men, piled like kindling, hard as

            seasoned wood. All gone now.

This is from a NaPoWriMo prompt. I don't plan to try for a poem a day; if I get a poem a week I'll be happy.

[Click the image to see credits & larger sizes at flickr.]