Roger Cowin

Fall

A cadre of crows plot against the scarecrow
keeping his faithful vigil over the farmer’s field.
He only moves when the wind blows.
Today the air is still.

The crisp, golden days of autumn
erupt into a pageant of splendid color.

Trees don their gaudiest clothes,
and bright yellow school busses reappear,
even the cerulean sky is streaked
with hints of violet, amber and orange.
Umber cornfields stretch out forever,
awaiting the harvest.


Winter

Winter descends quickly
and overstays its welcome
casting its icy net
over the desolate earth,
a beautiful and deadly web.

By February, the nomad in us
longs for the tropical climes
of the deep south.
We breathe the agitated air,
grow restless and sad.

{Poems by Roger Cowin}