Soft, icy crystals cover the
neat green grass as warning
of the massive blizzard yet to come.
Soft, icy crystals cover the
neat green grass as warning
of the massive blizzard yet to come.
Fall is almost over
gone are the pumpkins
on the porches and
the trees, once full of
orange leaves, are now
bare and skinny.
Frost layers the ground
and stormy clouds
cover the sky in their
grey bulkiness, ready to
drop the anticipated
snow that heralds winter’s arrival.
Clawing their way out of graves long buried,
the undead creatures rise again to terrorize
those foolish enough to get in their way on
the zombies’ never-ending quest for brains.
Harmony now lays in ruins,
shattered and broken like a
fallen glass vase. The
resulting discord rampages
wildly, delighting in
the many laws that it alone now
has the power to rip and destroy.
The small beagle snuggles down
into the soft pile of warm blankets.
Curled nose-to-tail, big brown eyes
shut as a surprisingly loud snore escapes him,
like the rumble of the mighty diesel truck he
resides in. The powerful black nose twitches
in private dreams of his tracking legacy he shall
soon be trained in when he awakens.
The bees hum merrily as they float from
flower to flower, drunk off the sweet smell
of the salvia, the blooming butterfly bushes, and the
photogenic echinacea. They argue not over room or
space, as there is plenty of blossoms for all. Why,
just across the yard is a loud rose-of-sharon demanding
attention. Next to it are several varieties of chrysanthemum
bushes and a few zinnias. Dragonflies zoom alongside the
intoxicated bees, clear and alert as they rest on the ninebark’s
slender branches. The sun sets on the merry scene just as the butterflies
and hummingbirds soar in to enjoy the fuschia hanging from the pots
near the gate overcome with elegant strands of honeysuckle. Crickets chirp
to conclude the feast as the moon silently observes the flower garden.
Weary feet travel the long, endless road
in hopes of reaching that blessed, promised land
and safety from the persecution of the unforgiving mob
lie just beyond the Rocky Mountains and past
the Donner party’s trail, praying that they will
not meet a similar fate. The long journey is finally over
when the leader, sick and bound to his wagon, sees the
beautiful valley and declares, “This is the place.”
Glowing flames leap from the dry mountaintop,
spreading oh-so-very quickly down the side
and across to the side, leaping over
the canyons and hungrily devouring the
houses and possessions in front of it.
Gallant warriors, the firefighters,
bravely step in and use their watery weapons
to extinguish the flames, now mad with a the
desire to destroy. The day has been saved.
Summer rain is
often cold and wet,
with dark clouds and
sometimes thunder.
Some plants don’t mind
the sudden drop in temperature,
but all the people can do is
hope that snow doesn’t fall.
As the daffodils fade away
and the tulips start to wither,
room is made for the annuals
and expanding perennials.
The gorgeous land of the Wasatch Front
is transformed yet again as the mountains
change from brown to a bright green.
Hope is in the air. Spring is here to stay.
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