A Den of Our Own
Leaves come down.
The sun-dappled path
Seems darker now.
The west wind roars
In the upper boughs,
Chipmunks scurry—
With days shorter now.
I turn at the creek
And head for home;
A rabbit scampers
At the warning of crows.
Soon the ground will be frosted
With early snow,
And tracks of a hare
Will cross my own.
But all other life
Will stay in their lairs,
And only woodsmen
Will know they’re there.
And you and I
Will sit by the fire
Nestled with our animals
From winter’s ire;
Safe from the wind
Down the chimney stone,
In the cozy warmth...
A den of our own.
I liked that you were able to 'take' from nature so as to create an image for us to share from you.
Hmm...have you ever wonered, when inspired (directly or indirectly) by the seasons, what images are formed in minds that have never experienced such seasons, just rain and no rain seasons?
I doubt that even a good imagination can identify with those feelings of being toast-warm and safe while the snow flurries in patterns, as if trying to weave a spell to freeze our bones.
It's interesting that many people see Canadian Lit as being preoccupied with the themes of survival and the need to seek shelter. I suppose it's a consequence of living in a country that has four seasons, each with their own particular beauty and challenges. I can understand people moving to Florida or Arizona for health reasons, but something's gained and lost when that happens - I need change - the coming of the new - and so far, I haven't yet become a hater of winter :)