From the archives – Tomorrow Will Be Cold by S. Thomas Summers

Tomorrow Will Be Cold

At least, that’s what the weatherman said.
The temperature will drop like a brick hurled
off a mountain’s peak, like a falcon that’s tucked
its wings close, diving to nab a rabbit that darts

about the forest floor, searching for a few more ribbons
of dead grass to line its burrow before curling
into its heartbeat, clenching all the warmth it can.
Wind will sweep over the hills, weave through trees,

straining the spines of elm and oak, exciting the chimes
that dangle from my backyard birch into panic;
they’ll ding and clang, shiver discordant songs
above the neighborhood stray, a gray cat, that, I assume,

will find its spot among branches of Holly,
tangled arms collecting silence and shadow.
I’ll peer out the window, wrapped in a sweater,
my hands curled around a hot mug of coffee

as steam rises from its mouth as it would a cauldron circled
by witches, weird sisters, stirring a foul concoction,
chanting, rhyming strange words, each sound
meant to make thick the blood of all who find breath

where fires flare and hearths are warm.
That’s what the weatherman said.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, February 23, 2016 — by S. Thomas Summers

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Of Parchment Scored by S. Thomas Summers

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Of Parchment Scored

Old leaves litter
the forest floor,
sacred scraps
of parchment
scored

by a season’s hand;
children gather
each crinkled skin,
mustard and wine,
olive and gold,

as wizards and sages
gather a millennium’s
history, trace
cold fingers
across a page’s

wrinkles and ink,
discovering
the possibilities
of beauty,
the tragedies

of loss, hanging the solemn
passages of autumn
on the refrigerator door,
the stories mommy
and daddy must learn.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, October 23, 2015 — by S. Thomas Summers

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – While Driving in Warwick, New York by S. Thomas Summers

12fence_bw

While Driving in Warwick, New York

There is the silence
I covet. A white mare
deep in her meadow,
wading in the shade
gifted by a pair
of stout oaks,
their limbs twisted
together, rising
and rising above
a rail fence.

The mare swishes
her tail, twitches her
ears at the flies
that love her
even more than I love her;
yet, she cares only
for the apple
nestled in the tall grass
that hides her ivory hooves –
only for the apple,
and I envy her.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, September 23, 2015 — by S. Thomas Summers

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

Tomorrow Will Be Cold by S. Thomas Summers

Tomorrow Will Be Cold

At least, that’s what the weatherman said.
The temperature will drop like a brick hurled
off a mountain’s peak, like a falcon that’s tucked
its wings close, diving to nab a rabbit that darts

about the forest floor, searching for a few more ribbons
of dead grass to line its burrow before curling
into its heartbeat, clenching all the warmth it can.
Wind will sweep over the hills, weave through trees,

straining the spines of elm and oak, exciting the chimes
that dangle from my backyard birch into panic;
they’ll ding and clang, shiver discordant songs
above the neighborhood stray, a gray cat, that, I assume,

will find its spot among branches of Holly,
tangled arms collecting silence and shadow.
I’ll peer out the window, wrapped in a sweater,
my hands curled around a hot mug of coffee

as steam rises from its mouth as it would a cauldron circled
by witches, weird sisters, stirring a foul concoction,
chanting, rhyming strange words, each sound
meant to make thick the blood of all who find breath

where fires flare and hearths are warm.
That’s what the weatherman said.

by S. Thomas Summers

Twitter: @summerspoet

Editor’s Note: Personification illuminates the cold landscape in this winter poem, giving us dull humans a glimpse of another world where chimes have a heart and trees have spines.

Where the Shadows Grow by S. Thomas Summers

Where the Shadows Grow

The cardinal,
red crest capping
its head as flame,

hops from branch
to branch,
rising

through the thorns
with the confidence
of fire,

rising
from the dark weave,
into the air

under the pine trees
where the shadows grow.

by S. Thomas Summers

Twitter: @summerspoet

Editor’s Note: Somehow, this poem manages to embody both a dread of terrible events, and the flame that keeps hope alive. Perhaps that is too much explication for an imagistic poem and a single bird, but current events always seem to inform my perception.

Of Parchment Scored by S. Thomas Summers

Of Parchment Scored

Old leaves litter
the forest floor,
sacred scraps
of parchment
scored

by a season’s hand;
children gather
each crinkled skin,
mustard and wine,
olive and gold,

as wizards and sages
gather a millennium’s
history, trace
cold fingers
across a page’s

wrinkles and ink,
discovering
the possibilities
of beauty,
the tragedies

of loss, hanging the solemn
passages of autumn
on the refrigerator door,
the stories mommy
and daddy must learn.

by S. Thomas Summers

Twitter: @summerspoet

Editor’s Note: This poem encapsulates autumn, the history of writing, and the beginning of literacy… and then it somehow ties all of this into the emotional trauma of parenthood.

While Driving in Warwick, New York by S. Thomas Summers

While Driving in Warwick, New York

There is the silence
I covet. A white mare
deep in her meadow,
wading in the shade
gifted by a pair
of stout oaks,
their limbs twisted
together, rising
and rising above
a rail fence.

The mare swishes
her tail, twitches her
ears at the flies
that love her
even more than I love her;
yet, she cares only
for the apple
nestled in the tall grass
that hides her ivory hooves –
only for the apple,
and I envy her.

by S. Thomas Summers

Twitter: @summerspoet

Editor’s Note: The short lines and repetition of imagery lends itself to the haiku-like realization that unfolds at the end of this lovely poem. I, too, envy the mare.