Anger stays the cold!

Does the tree burn enraged

against chill gloom of winter?

~

Perhaps the tree glows

in thanks for another chance

 after winter’s chill has passed.

Autumn tree aflame

with self consuming fire –

a stay against winter’s cold?

~

Perhaps warmth will come

 not from orange shawl but from

  browning blanket under foot.

With the falling leaves,

 the winds of autumn seem to

scatter poetic license.

~

It’s hunting season.

 I have my license so I’ll

just scare up a poem.

Tell me, aged Sage,

Do your words leap to the page,

or must you nail them down there?

~

Words, like this aged

sage, leap and sail, creep and wail,

but you can’t keep either down.

Tell me, my clever

son, how many poets does

it take to change a light bulb?

~

None,of course. Poets

may light the spark but change

must glow from within the bulb.

Does careful planning

 allow a joyful note to

over chime the constant din?

~

Consider that small

bird. He plans not;  neither does

he  measure. His joy  just rings.

Small bird, why do you

try to sing when the air is

so full of those cawing crows?

~

The song must be sung!

Like flowers bloom on coal tips

though none ever smell them there.

I found this fertile

pasture by stepping in dung.

Is there any better way?

~

I’ve heard the sages

of the ages say there is

no better way. Urg, I say.

My son, anger turned 

you toward poetry, but what

has caused you to linger there?

~

Verse may heal the wounds,

but creation surely breeds

in existential crisis.