A
question of warmth
curtail November walks
prefer the warmth of home.
Heating pad warms my bed,
Hot chocolate warms me inside.
In the rain and wind,
autumn leaves swirl and dance
their way to the ground,
covering the earth,
providing warmth for plants.
Tents in freeway green belts,
vacant lots,
provide meager shelter
from long nights,
gloomy skies, raw temperatures.
Warmth, taken for granted at home;
inadequate, at best, in encampments.
Is warmth
a luxury or
a basic need?
A poetry group I belong to chose a theme for November of "anaphora," which means repetition of a phrase at the beginning of a sentence, a section, etc. Interesting challenge! I've been thinking a lot about change as we go through this pandemic and as there are personal changes in my life. Hence this poem.
Change just is.
Prolific, idyllic summers
transition to crisp, blustery autumns,
then stormy, frigid winters,
to the green resurrection of
spring,
and return to summer.
Change just is.
Consider the phases of the moon.
New, crescent, gibbous, full,
disseminating, balsamic, new.
A continuous revolution.
Change just is.
Perhaps subtle or dramatic
Perilous or beneficial
Irrevocable, transcendent
Incremental, miraculous
Baffling, profound
and always inevitable.
Change just is.
Our response is our choice.
Resist the unjust, the irrational.
Suspension of transformation
of self, others, or the world
is not possible.
Change just is.
