William A. Deans of Ft. Wayne, Indiana, visual artist and poet calls most of the pieces I see “The view from my study window” which I think is the kind of literary humility that says — Look, here, at the words to come. This is the story. Let it speak.
Skim ice shimmers in the ambient, predawn light.
Rooftops, white with frost, stare blindly at a grey sky.
Cold has cast its spell, rendering barren trees motionless.
The blaze that was Fall has faded.
Leaves, which yesterday beguiled us, lie motionless.
I long for a breath of air, just a breeze, to send them scattering
like a thousand kittens at play.
Melancholy hangs about this day like a dark shroud.
I long for fire and hearth that I might dream
of sweet bird songs, sunflowers and steaming tea.