sitting on a log

It is the change of seasons that brings this unease:
with spring comes the  digging out;
with summer the shedding of clothes;
with autumn the donning of same;
with winter the burial.

In spring we scrape away old skin
from bones that barely rattle when shaken;
we scrub walls, wash heavy wools and comb furs;
skin tingles, fairly aches with raw freshness
it is so

In summer, we are naked to the breezes
that snuggle into our light cottons;
we rub ourselves raw against the sun;
and we peel and drown in water
it is so

In autumn we reap the yellowing growth
that has burdened the fields;
we weary ourselves with preparations
for the invasion to come
it is so

In winter we huddle inside the warmth
that comforts us in this darkness;
we scan the horizon for the return
of the invigorating, exhausting paranoia
it is so

But if you decide
to sit here with me
on this log
in the middle
of the sky blue river
we might splash
some blue
at someone

The voice of the poet

riverwriter reads:  
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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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