The graceful grasses bow in the November wind
geese call out as they fly South
the Dragonfly no longer lands on the lily pad
Come my pretties
and eat from my hand
this may be the last time
until it's warm again.
The days grow short
and soon you must go
to the murky depths below
life on hold.
A long wait for that golden orb
to circle the sky
bringing back the garden, you , and I.
I wonder if this time of year
you imagine what it would be like
to move to Florida or somewhere near
instead of being a prisoner
of cruel Old Man Winter.
I will think of you as I sit by the fire
frozen in time
waiting for Spring