By Dave Hood
The north wind has kicked over
the last summer Muskoka chair on the porch,
blown the wind chimes into the empty garden,
as I close the front door to my retired life,
of books, a laptop, Internet connection
to the world.
I trudge along the lonely, gravel road
to pick up mail from the past week,
wearing my parka, scarf,
gloves and woolen cap,
think of the summer that’s passed
so quickly, and the fierce winter
that will be arriving in the country
in the next few weeks.
The grey sky evokes a melancholy mood,
as though someone has died.
The geese escape to the south for the winter.
A black crow sits, perched on the hydro wire.
The big Maples stand silently, watch me pass.
Leaves fall, decay beneath like corpses.
At the mailbox, I pick up a post card
with a picture of a sandy beach,
blue sea, palm trees.
It’s from a friend whose a snow bird,
starting a long vacation in sunny, warm Florida.
How lucky he is, I think to myself,
trekking back to the house,
noticing the grey rickety barn,
barren field waiting for the first snowfall.
The frigid air, cold wind cuts like a knife,
dampens the spirit,
as I move along the desolate road,
back to the lazy boy, to sit by the fire-place,
warm my soul, boost my spirits
return to reading a mystery novel
by Agatha Christie.
This dreary November day reminds
how much I miss the hot, sunny days
relaxing, blue skies, optimism of summer.
