The season’s first snow crowns the cabin in white.
I toss fresh logs on the fire; cinders flash,
bright as new pennies. Smoke rises like blackbirds.
My wife, warming her hands on a cup of coffee,
watches shadows of flame rage like bat wings
against the walls.
Only yesterday morning, in sandals and shorts,
we had taken the narrow, sinuous path
lined with leaves the color of caramel
to feed the ducks on the bank of the pond,
the ascending sun tincturing the horizon
burnished copper to salmon pink.
But tonight, winter, that ponderous gray zeppelin,
has drifted down from its northern base
to linger over the landscape like a headstone.
About the Poet
Jeff King lives in the small town of Arab, Alabama. He is an Electronic Technician specializing in the manufacture/repair of guidance and communications equipment for Apache helicopters. When not at work he’s usually engaged in some sort of artistic endeavor, remodeling his farmhouse, or merely being amused by feeding his ducks while sitting in the shade of an old sycamore.