There’s a barren beauty to the late year –

a sleeping beauty

a quiet life that whispers –

before the crescendo of spring


a patient pulse

that the busy mind would find –



but for all our hurried hours –

our surface sprint –


it is this dark earth –

these frozen veins –

that carry promise


a still life –

is still life


a necessary slow –

that quickens time –


a remind

that now is then and then is past


neither a heady summer

nor a faded fall –

will last




This is part of a new series called “Poetry Plates” that I may turn into a book…

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