On Whitehall Creek

ByMerrie Dail

Life
was expectant
with spring’s first bud
rushed headlong into summer
barely paused when
Fall rescued us from languid August days.

Winter nearing
we must linger till morning light
to pull on warm clothes
slip past sleeping cats
and out for our morning walk.

No heron
or Squirrel – only
geese pass overhead, honking
snow will come
and they too will fall silent

Like the passing
of seasons
we
rush toward Christmas – and beyond.

But Hark!
the herald angels sing
trumpets sound on high, urging
us to stop and reflect
rekindle connections
and embrace this time to nourish and rebuild
Merry Christmas to all!

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