Winter of our discontent

Where the capillaries rise

up into the skies

to scrape at the low grazing clouds.

In ordinary times, the moisture would draw

through the capillaries and veins down below.

But in a time of drought

rules of weather and life are broken.

The bare oaks and maples and sycamores, too,

will take a drink where they can get it.

It’s a gray on gray day,

a wintery day, but dry,

only if one flake would start,

perhaps others would join in.

But in between heaven and earth

the gulls beat their wings

in a stream of feathers

to bed in the diminishing lake.

The drifting of leaves is all over,

although blankets tucked into winter whitened hosta remain.

We could happily live with some white on white

and then let blue skies break through again.

Dense fog would be tempting,

frost would wet our whistle,

but a blizzard is what we’re all needing.

The gray branches are speaking,

their desperate scratching pleading,

hoping against hope for water.

But though they’ve been here before

and some have made it through -

some have not.

Will this finally become the true winter of our discontent?

So far the drought remains unbroken.