Where Spirits Dwell

Days are brief, uncertain. Nights snore deeply...dreaming, still. Light lays down, in shadowed lanes as doubt appear, like unto orchards...row on row.

The summers cheer, all lapped away, is sober now...save, amber'd bottle near the fire, where spirits dwell, as I and they, do listen...to the winter howl.

A little warmth, within our self, to contemplate, the ticking of the time we've got...to write, the faster, with our quill.

So many things to say, and needs, to say them well, that future tongues, may read...and wonder why, these things were said, till they are wise enough...to know.

Where, Christmas comes, the new year shivers, in the vestibule and hopes, as I...for better times, the more, the merrier...till spring arrives, for everyone.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Joao Marnato, old man by a fire