Winter Riddles

This could be any orchard,

filled with winter riddles.

These trees were made by a spider.

Not one naked fruit will fall.

Nearby, houses crowd each other,

mimic webs, the hidden weaver.

Still, carpenters work from a faulty

pattern; trees cut from the wild stand

as dwellings over ancient footfalls.

This orchard is a cloudy mirror.

Before it is a single image, many

silks, a blossoming center.

The city inches closer

for instruction: Streets are

too random, buildings too busy.

But one house knows, reaps its own

fruit, firm as a springtime apple.

Painters change its skin from

gray to a pale, joyful yellow.

Day by day hammers fill the house's open,

windy spaces. New roof keeps the sky

above, makes foundations solid.

The old dog breaks his chain, even,

to run past a rose-colored window.

In the yard, a spindling fruit tree

cuts the cold with a wispy offering.

About these ads
Sponsored Content by LockerDome

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.




Save for later


Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items


Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items


Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items