Wan Sun, No Snow - D.R. James

Mere tufts of snow now dot
the downed leaves, gleaming
like wide mushrooms. Incredible
how quickly that total blanketing
has soaked into near extinction.

In this most welcome splash of light
nothing seems to mourn: the bleak
yard, the splayed twigs on trees
only conjuring their buds, a blush
of blue soothing its gentle gaze
through the slats of woods.

At last I concede the winter’s
deft control—it settles in my mind
like a cat kneading a woolen throw,
the cat circling twice around before
her graceful lowering into place.

All day the bashful shadows slowly
shift, gradually compassing northeast.
At dusk, tattered, solo oak leaves lift
in the building breeze, one raised
like an ascetic’s bony hand, waving
the season’s inevitable welcome.

Originally published by Galway Review 2017

D. R. James, a year+ into retirement from nearly 40 years of teaching college writing, literature, and peace studies, lives, writes, and cycles with his psychotherapist wife in the woods near Saugatuck, Michigan. His latest of ten collections are Mobius Trip and Flip Requiem (Dos Madres Press, 2021, 2020), and his prose and poems have appeared internationally in a wide variety of print and online anthologies and journals.
https://www.amazon.com/author/drjamesauthorpage