Winter Woods

Winter woods are gray and silent,

Soft, and deep, and frosty,

In pine and spruce scented air,

Ice crystals cling like jeweled lichen,

Birch trees shining silver against the other pewter trees,

Branches all askew,

Reaching for the sky,

With green draped hemlocks

Dancing in the glen,

The whistling winds sings

Winter’s here again.

The tiny trumpet call of nuthatches

Breaks the woodland’s sleep,

And it’s then that I remember,

“I have promises to keep.”

So softly I pad back

Down this winter woodland trail,

To the waiting warmth of my winter cottage,

To my winter woodland home.

Kathie Adams Brown (12-30-14)

The Chimney Swifts are Gone

The chimney swifts are gone,

and they took their cheerful voices,

Instead,

I hear cicadas whine

With a sound that spells the end,

The sky is faded blue

By the blazing summer sun,

Maple leaves are tinged with red,

The first hint of the coming Fall,

The scent of new mown hay

Lies heavy in humid air,

It is the end of summer,

--the waning days of summer,

--I’ll say good-bye to summer,

Until it comes next year.

~Kathie Adams Brown (August 27, 2014)

In the Green Fields of Maine

Norridgewock, ME 2012

In the green fields of Maine

I lie on the cool green breast of the earth

Warmed by an Indian Summer sun

While all of my sadness drains away

Drawn out by this good earth,

This dirt and grass, and deep blue sky

I lie here still as a newborn fawn,

I feel this sense of being

Close to the earth I love

Close to the land I love

Close to the beating heart of nature

I lie here weak and worried

Then I rest

And let my heart grow strong

Lying on this cool green breast

Warmed by the October sun

Grateful that I am home.

~Kathie Adams Brown (February 7, 2013)

In the Desert Now

I am in the desert now,

In the soft low light of October,

But every now and then

I catch a glimpse of autumn color,

The remembered rainbow

Of the forest’s last fling,

And I think I hear the sweet autumn song

Of the white-throated sparrow,

Or the crunching of dried leaves beneath my feet.

Is that the scent of apples carried on the wind?

Can I really smell the memory of  

The first wood fire on the hearth?

But these are gossamer threads

Pulling me back to a place I have left behind.

I am in the desert now

Learning new rhythms to life and seasons,

I am learning new scents and sights and sounds,

The kestrel calls to me, the thrasher and the phainopepla,

It is the Say’s phoebe whose voice I hear at dawn.

I am learning a new melody,

Soon I will sing the desert’s song.

~Kathie Adams Brown (October 24, 2012)