Winter

is the time not to hibernate
but stay indoors to catch up 
to learn the wise ones in the book,
to grow a less painful garden.

I stand in the window often,
eyes skipping, gliding, as the leaves
on the street frolic or fly, forgetting
everything, like the retirees.
My feet itch to go out,
as the brain flags restraint.

Why not start the ski lesson
given up long ago.
The brain shivers even to consider it;
the neck stiffens at the thought.

Just go for a short walk.
I bundle up with a coat and a scarf;
step into the dozing-deep snow in the sun,
and let the bossy Bailey lead the way. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

Purple Winter Walk

The air is crisp; the refined one
of the last October air;
the fallen leaves are pale brown,
the high hopes of gold ad red abandoned,
like the acceptance of the old beauty;
yet not resigned but fitting in the time.

The old home in the woods seem closer than 
the earlier thought; next, it recedes farther;
as if gone to a place unreachable.

The deep snow, not to be blamed;
but the worn eagerness by the torn age.
Don't come, it whispers,
the voice hollow as the old home;
but my footsteps keep on moving as if
it grew its own spirit;
as the sun's finger points to my heart.

Lest I stop, a rabbit hops ahead;
and a hidden bird sings for the winter day.    

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

October Haiku

pale yellow leaves
paint the alleys and streets
mound of art show

pink cotton clouds 
doze in the early morning sky
sparrows sing wild

bare tree limbs conduct
the Song of Northern Wind
first snowflakes dance

the first snow blankets 
the porch and driveway
a stranger's footprints

the gust wind knocked
down the Halloween Ghost
missing Halloween idol

they give flue and
Covid shot at the same time
prefer one at a time.

©Byung A. Fallgren