Seasonal Menu

Snow begins to fall
as the Northwest wind whispers,
Winter is coming.

Elsewhere rain has given way to sun,
and migrating birds join in song
with the native chorus.

I blink awake each morning
needing to re-establish myself here,
because I’m usually uncertain
from where I’m just arriving.

Then as my day goes on,
my conversations grow deeper,
and I feel my soul becoming lighter.

But don’t be fooled.
A laughing soul is dead serious.

I guess what I truly want to be known
is there’s something wrong
when your age increases,
but the menu of questions
from which you order your life
never changes.

Don’t resist the seasons.

Follow them.

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This poem was written on December 3, 2025.