The black walnut a gnarled hand, stretched heavenward

with swollen joints, lording over sleeping poppies and forgotten marigolds.

The calming scent of lavender a distant memory,

replaced with a sudden sharpness upon inhaling.

Summer’s oasis, tightly wrapped,

protective gates adorned with a delicate veil of glistening diamonds.

The spade and shovel, off-duty sentries at ease in the shed,

await their spring employ, apt bastions of the garden are they.

August’s bounty, stalks and fruit a decaying graveyard,

in frozen loam beneath pristine icing, bracing for Jack Frost’s final sting.

Lacy pines flutter, a bashful girl’s eyelashes bat a flurry of crystals into a swirling current.

Are they flirting with the Old Man?

The silence is deafening but for the clickety clack of naked oaks protesting each exhale.