Crocus thaws my heart.
Lilac warms and fondles it.
Roses burn it out.

102

Bare tree, still as death,
black upon the ice flecked sky.
I, too, wait the spring.

103

Grave rooted skeleton,
brittle mime, pose the question:
Is life late this year?

104

Your eyes are green pools.
No ripple of me lingers
on their surface.

106

Night and I made love
until night died; once again
I am in mourning.

115

Lovely weather, this
first day; another spring is
now a year away.

147

The moss on the rock
of my memory is you,
softening cold stone.

161

Black pond at dusk – still.
Somber sunset: burnt, ashen.
Splash alone lives on.

163

Crickets shred silence
into scratches and scrapes.
Dissatisfied bunch.

168

My shadow is tall ,
taller than this mountaintop
I’m on. Mighty dwarf.

175

Clouds are washed and spread
to dry beneath the last sun
upon the last sky.

176

Across my August
pond is September. On it:
invisible ice.

182

One by one the pears
drop off, minutes from the hour.
Time and tree grow bare.

184

Even on my land
there are stones and rocks no eye
has seen underneath.

185
August last is cold.
Winter fire has not been lit.
Fall’s first chill is bold.

187

 

®Copyright 1966 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.
From Poemystic.com