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I sit alone, lonely,

Invisible in my chair,

Memory warmed;

While winter, suddenly cold and white,

Unexpectedly covers my earth.

When will it end?

The sun has abandoned.

I watch a red bird couple snuggle on a snowy Cypress branch,

Watching with me.

Is it their Winter?

Stillness surrounds me,

As nature swirls her blustery brush,

Renewing relentlessly with tiny flakes,

Reminding me;

It is My Winter too!

“Poetry on My Mind,” p25

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Jan 05, 2021

Barb, Thank you for sharing your comment with me and others. I think to comment on a poem is to know its meaning all the better. Interaction, brings new meaning. To glance and hastidly retreat, to skim poetry, is to lose the value added. Once consumed, a poem rests in one’s soul. Don’t miss it.

I write about death, not because I’m depressed or old, but because it’s what poets do. Winter! Ahhh, Winter you cold, dark, sneaky fellow. Winter is the last season in our lives and as such, causes one pause, “Is it my Winter, my last season?” Is death upon me, perhaps just around the next cold, frozen, snowstorm? Are those hardy red birds that stay the…


Barbara Robertson
Barbara Robertson
Jan 05, 2021

Beautiful picture. Beautiful words.

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