Death’s Indignity

This Winter passes on without a snow,
yet is cold as a corpse drained of its hues,
all is either black or brown or sallow;
a fell tumescence festers in its views.
Snowfall no longer drapes this scabrous land
like the white sheet spread with grief and pity,
nor is a shroud laid by a loving hand—
all is laid bare in Death’s indignity.

Slapdash

Far overhead,
the squirrel’s bed,
a slapdash nest
at the behest
of innate need
to feed and breed
in the oak tree,
precariously
thrown together
to withstand the weather,
just leaves and sticks,
not stones or bricks,
plotted by instinct,
twigs interlinked
in frenzied haste
before Winter’s waste.
To and fro
stop and go,
reddish squirrels
along limbs and burls,
ceaseless chatter,
pitter-patter
as acorns fall
in Autumn’s hall.