I live in the UK, keeping bees and helping my wife with her quilting business. I have published verse and prose both in print and online.
Down Old Salt Road the coppice trees
suggest resurrection in the shape of leaves,
till autumn and we who wear and tear,
fold on the landing and trip down the stair.
Then winter comes to stay for longer than before,
and the songbirds call from another shore,
and ever higher, and ever rounder,
snow is the moon that turned to powder.
If the seasons stopped and summer never came
we would never live and never die again,
so perhaps next spring best not arrive . . .
see the branches tremble now, and revive.