The farmers’ fields are a sullen brown,

though patches keep their green in protest

of the triumph of relentless winter.

The land wears a dingy gown.

 

Sweet scents of summer air

and the panorama of green

inspire thoughts of paradise,

give hope to those who despair.

 

But the winter seems not the season for this.

The wind moans through the trees

that have lost their leafy crowns.

The icy chill kills with a kiss.

 

The cumbersome clouds portend

yet another snow of the season.

All things wait in great suspense

until the heights their harvest send.

 

And plentiful is the crop

that more than amply fills

the great bin that is earth.

The snow and wind slow and stop.

 

Neophytes laud the God of love.

Houses, roads, lawns, and fields

have donned their Whitsun robes.

The land is hushed and gentle as a dove.

 

Babel has been subdued,

though brief it would be.

The hope of sanguine summer

has the contrary solstice imbued.

 

Michael G. Tavella

October 7, 2024