Metaphors are written into the wind, the forests, the seasons, the oceans, the sunsets, the rivers, the stars...... What a gift to be able to capture them, contemplate them, and celebrate them!
From my frost covered window
I watch a lonesome bird contemplate
His reflection in an icy puddle.
Thin feathers, hardly a heavy jacket for this biting day,
Shield his naked soul from the death of winter.
Why has he lingered?
Gone are his fellow choir members.
Gone is the summer symphony.
He solos forgotten melodies into the silence of a snowy day
He chants carols from a spindly branch that wheezes as it bows..
I study this solitary bugler in awe.
He is a fighter
Not a comfort lover.
An independent thinker.
Not a follower.
He is one who chooses the path of most resistance,
One made strong by his very choices.
Undaunted by stormy threats and the howling mockery of the wind,
He announces life in the midst of death.
An unrelenting watchman on a wall,
He is the herald of spring time.