March
By Don Iannone

March winds howl without mercy.
Their wolf-like lungs ache--
inhaling bitter February air
not quite ready
to give over to April showers.
So we have March--
the in-between, go-between time
when kites either soar high
or fall abruptly
to the hard frozen ground below.
March winds cry--
into the night;
long past any hour of return.
Their voices drown out
winter's rebellious roar,
and spring's magical chant
that eventually coaxes early snow drops
to lift their frail heads
through still hard earth, and then
find the distant sun's white rays
that will grow strong enough
to still March's howl,
and steady spring's unpredictable dance
into the yellowing sun of summer.

Observing January
By Don Iannone

Cold dark late January afternoon.
Snow clings, like fluffy lint,
on frozen tree limbs shuddering
at the thought of three more months of winter.
Daylight fades, as afternoon gives way to evening,
and light wisps of snow now flurry their way
through openings pushed by winter's icy breath.
One lone sparrow in the distance
eyes the swaying feeder,
waiting for just the right moment
to descend for an early dinner
before darkness falls,
and the new moon rises.

My heart longs to sit
by a blazing fireplace,
nursing a stiff scotch on the rocks.

November
By Don Iannone













November arrives,
as lustful as bare wind on slackened sails,
Determined and forceful,
as only Scorpio can be, and always
secretive and magical in her poison sting,
The circles she spins...not beginnings of anything,
and not usually the end of anything, but
a time to be thankful for everything,
Also a time to celebrate pilgrimages, and
adventures to other worlds, that lie beyond
usual boundaries, and beyond
those normal parts of ourselves, that we wear
like costume jewelry to the theatre,
Her passionate skies wide open, and yield,
as only a woman can do,
ensnaring all she receives,
Her hypnotic smile intoxicates, and befalls
the unsuspecting seeker of her dark secrets,
November is here...I hear her spinning near.

Fall Magic
By Don Iannone

The glorious turning fall leaves
torture my sensibilities
with candy-sweet pleasure.
They leave me gasping,
like a diver submerged too long,
beholding the magical coral reef below.
They rip my heart out,
which goes chasing after whispering butterflies,
whose wings brush away lingering clouds.
And I thought early spring wildflowers
were hard to say goodbye to.

With Gentle Strokes She Paints
By Don Iannone

Fall hints
of her coming,
touching the leaves
with gentle strokes of color,
not unlike the painter
who starts out shy,
not knowing exactly where
her heart will carry the brush.
The masterpiece is complete, only when
her heart is full from giving.

Signs of Fall
By Don Iannone

Today a rust-colored leaf fell quite helplessly
from the large maple tree in the front yard.
There was no wind.
It was just its time to let go.
I listened as a stateman-like bluejay squawked nonstop,
forewarning us of swirling red-tail hawks,
who eyed the plump young morning doves, sitting in pairs
in the red cherry trees in the back woods.
The bluejay's shriek poked the air,
like sharp needles chisling colorful upper arm tattoos.
We found two writhing baby garter snakes
in the garage earlier in the week.
Both wore bright yellow necklaces--
the sort a mother gives her daughters
to wear at their debutante ball.
The flowers are enroute to seeds,
and their nectar runs sweet,
enticing full-bloom monarch butterflies
to cling much longer to their sticky honey.
Another Labor Day has passed,
and the kids stand in bunches along the road,
awaiting the golden rod-colored school buses
that carry them off to noisy classrooms,
filled with rosy-cheeked, wide-eyed youngsters,
who swap larger than life stories
about the summer that is gone,
like their innocence, once the teaching begins.
I long for a closer look at the fallen leaf,
but settle instead to let go of it,
along with my clinging to long sun-filled days.
My winter spirit is early this year, and my soul
is already warming itself by the blazing fireplace.