poem

BroomsThe leaves have all fallenAnd the cachectic treesAre swaying in the wind,Swish swish swish,Scratching at the gray soiled skyLike witches' brooms,Impossible to get clean.It ’s hard to get out of bed when it’s cold.Splash some water on your face,Run barefoot across the frostTo fetch a package from the mailbox.A shot of bourbon just before you shave.November mornings don ’t f. around.They wait for no stragglers.Get your boots laced,Choose a bold tie,Pick a proper face.But the deer find a way to disappearEven in the stripped downSkeletonized winter wood.Use what you have;This broken stick is a wand.The sky will clear, the sun will come.Just be patient, just wait.The haze will burn away.Soon those arthritic branches will be flushAgain in green leaves and white blossoms.When the wind hisses and piercesBe the one who laughedWhile everyone else scrubs and scoursAn already clean glass.And that may be enough.If anyone asksYou'll say it's just witchcraft.11/22/20

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - November 22, 2020 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs