Youth
by Richard Dinges, Jr.
Stripped of leaves,
whipped by fierce wind,
naked skeletons
crack an empty sky.
Old trees moan,
drop limbs in storms,
scattered at the feet
of young saplings
that bend their opinions
yet unformed.
Thin tendrils reach
up through a way
cleared for their growth
when a bright warm
sun returns.
Geese Before Dawn
Canadian geese crank out
atonal cries beyond
trees that ring pond’s
shore. Out of darkness
they cackle in alarm
at what I cannot see.
Before dawn in this vast
shadow, I awaken
from warm dreams into
a world distressed
by what lies hidden.
What bursts out
of the darkness?
What is not dispelled
when I turn on the lights?
Nickels and Dimes
Seasons repeat, a blend
of clouds sun.
Heat burns us dry.
Wind descends from
polar vortices, prepares
to blow us all south,
and then sucks it all
back again. A minor
star fuels a constant
respiration. Fattened
by our rare abundance
of water, we complain
about our inability
to believe in forecasts
of what will happen next.
All we need to do
is walk out the door
and watch and wait.
January Ice Storm
The trees have nothing
more to say, their
wind whispered voices
and veins encased in ice.
A white world reflects
light, returns sunrays
back to a dark universe,
another eternal
promise unfulfilled.
Wind raises a brief
Thrill. Tree limbs dance
in ecstasy to shake off
winter’s prison. And then
all settles back into a cold,
wide spread and empty
grasp at a dry sky
still in hope.
BIO
Richard Dinges, Jr. works on his homestead beside a drying pond, surrounded by trees and grassland, with his wife, two dogs, one cat, and twelve chickens. Hurricane Review, Ellipsis, Blue Lake Review, Cardinal Sins, and Avalon Literary Review most recently accepted his words for their publications.
