The signs of spring should be accompanied by exhilaration and joy.
There is a lot of static on the air waves.
Turn the dial, it's all hiss and then some garble.
We're in some minor kind of heat wave,
that's all that you can hear among the babble.
Ninety-three degrees up at the airport.
Four days within September, two broken records.
Some kid shut up his school by making threats;
a house a-fire, another woman dead;
the papers pages filled with theives and liars.
The truth among the news you barely see
consumed by all the senseless tragedy.
Over forty island nations going under -
very very slowly slipping under -
by the melting of the icecaps, and rising of the sea.
Noontime shadows lengthen, sunlight pales,
leaves slowly browning as the year blends autumn.
Brilliant flaming colors paint the hills
defiant joy in death, Nature's subtle hymn.
Warmth, morning's early promise, no avail,
cold damp descends in darkness on the land.
The flaming trees too quickly stripped by gales
that leave the branches hung like barren hands.
Morning after morning, the sky seems mourning.
It weeps it's little bitter acid tears.
The heedless hands of men have wrought this burning
bitter rain, without a care, concern, or fear.
Beware, this is Nature's silent warning:
a greater madness man is spawning.
© D. Winter
these poems were published in the Vermont Times, November 24, 1999 and were written by the author of this blog.