A pale orb brooding,
Omen of menace,
Behind winter’s veil,
Glares in retreat.

Bare boughs stirring,
All lacy and dark,
In spring never fail,
Await gentle heat.

Small birds singing,
Bidden with hope,
Suffered every gale,
Lift wings to beat.

Dogs on ice loping,
Their masters arear,
Boats without sail,
Tack with their feet.

Gulls stoic resting,
Waiting for thaw.
Their journey a tale,
They gather a fleet.

Hockey pucks flying,
Kids turning blue,
The fathers regale,
While mothers greet.

Ron Cohen © 2011


2 Responses to Pale Orb*

  1. Ron Cohen says:

    Thanks as always Robin. Kind words and encouraging. You’re pretty eloquent yourself. -Ron

  2. Robin Mirollo says:

    You’re quite the naturalist poet. You’ve captured the painful, exquisite beauty of winter and the pulse of renewal that comes with spring. Loved the line about the birds that suffered every gale. I think of those birds and how they survive storms and wish I felt as hardy at the end of winter. Now their work just begins, the mating, the building, the nesting and feeding of their young. I await their return with great anticipation. -Robin

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