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A Midwest winter solstice having passed,
the sun will soon begin its southern crawl, and daylight hours, now in scant supply, increase in number, forcing spring's recall. Cold lakes, asleep in frigid silence, wait for the melting of their layered, icy wraps, and though secluded, those around them bide return of color to their snowy laps. Most wildlife has lulled and settled down to hibernate through arctic biting chill, an eerie calm surrounds the lakeshore's edge, the Midwest winter's denizens are still. The hush will break with sunshine's warm effect- the booming cracks mean little disrespect. 
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I
The fluid movement of the dance on dark proscenium restored the chaos of the day to equilibrium, so many lead abundant lives of pandemonium. II The audience was mesmerized, the silhouettes conveyed bright spotlights gleaming on the stage, a troupe in masquerade, the keen effect in evening fare their visions' serenade. As nightfall brings the cooler air, these thespians embark on nightly themes of fantasy, providing just a spark of hope and fleeting happiness for those amid the dark. III While leading ordinary lives their calling to the stage brings rapt fulfillment of the soul, allows them to engage with people of society, and all for little wage. 
From mountains comes the tramontane,
while overdue, the town enjoys a cooling countryside refrain. The bittern and the wattled crane reminds, with aviaran poise, from mountains comes the tramontane. The vane need never ascertain direction that the wind employs, this cooling countryside refrain. The elder citizens explain its coming to the girls and boys- from mountains comes the tramontane. A raucous storm on coastal plain has lessened to a gentle noise, a cooling countryside refrain. The breeze, a respite, entertains with brilliant kites and outdoor toys. From mountains comes the tramontane, a cooling countryside refrain. 
Decrepit and leaning, so weathered,
Its apertures spreading out wide, The wood is decayed but still standing, A lonely gray shack cast aside. It sits on the farmland's back corner, Away from a frivolous life, Utility was its conception, Supplies and containers were rife. The needs of the farmer were changing, Its uses declined through the years, Until the forgotten wood structure Would warp into what now appears. I stare at the water-stained wallboards, The ceiling corrupted and maimed, I think of its maiden construction, Its dignity newly reclaimed. 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
February 2021
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