Log cabin and field scene at Baltimore WOods on a frosty winter snowy day
snowflakes on crabapples

As Vincent Willem Van Gogh said, “…and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?”  Explore nature through poetry. Feeling inspired to write a few words of your own? Share it with us at [email protected]!

Weekly Poems

Green Mistletoe!

Oh, I remember now

A dell of snow,

Frost on the bough;

None there but I:

Snow, snow, and a wintry sky.

None there but I,

And footprints one by one,


Where I had run;

Where shrill and powdery

A robin sat in the tree.

And he whistled sweet;

And I in the crusted snow

With snow-clubbed feet

Jigged to and fro,

Till, from the day,

The rose-light ebbed away.

And the robin flew

Into the air, the air,

The white mist through;

And small and rare

The night-frost fell

In the calm and misty dell.

And the dusk gathered low,

And the silver moon and stars

On the frozen snow

Drew taper bars,

Kindled winking fires

In the hooded briers.

And the sprawling Bear

Growled deep in the sky;

And Orion’s hair

Streamed sparkling by:

But the North sighed low,

“Snow, snow, more snow!”


Gather ‘round the table now

To be with one another

As snowflakes cuddle on the tree

Like children ‘round their mother


The last of the tomatoes have been harvested

The garden discarded

The sun tries to peek out

From behind looming clouds

That seek to blanket the days in shades of gray

While the wind seems to wisp

The remaining leaves on the trees away

Chasing daylight in the morning and night

Bodies continue to hurry and bustle

An inward call beckons come to rest

Nights cool, rain falls, mind calms

Dancing with the rhythm of the season

As Mother Nature takes the lead

The breath of cool air seems to invite all at ease

As I sing the lullaby of November.

    Beautiful landscape! I could look on thee

    For hours, unmindful of the storm and strife,

    And mingled murmurs of tumultuous life.

    Here, all is still as fair; the stream, the tree,

    The wood, the sunshine on the bank: no tear,

    No thought of Time’s swift wing, or closing night,

    That comes to steal away the long sweet light

    No sighs of sad humanity are here.

    Here is no tint of mortal change; the day,

    Beneath whose light the dog and peasant-boy

    Gambol, with look, and almost bark, of joy,

    Still seems, though centuries have passed, to stay.

    Then gaze again, that shadowed scenes may teach

    Lessons of peace and love, beyond all speech.

Link: https://www.public-domain-poetry.com/william-lisle-bowles/on-a-beautiful-landscape-9332

Fall, a Song by John Denver

Reflections in the water like shadows in my mind

Speak to me of passing days and nights and passing time

The falling leaves are whispering, “Winter’s on its way,”

I close my eyes, remembering the warmth of yesterday

It seems a shame to see September swallowed by the wind

And more than that, it’s, oh, so sad to see the summer end

And though the changing colors are a lovely thing to see

If it were mine to make the change, I think I’d let it be

But I don’t remember hearing anybody asking me

Link: https://www.lyrics.com/lyric/1067119/John+Denver/Season+Suite%3A+Fall

I think he knows I’m alive, having come down

The three steps of the back porch

And given me a good once over. All afternoon

He’s been moving back and forth,

Gathering odd bits of walnut shells and twigs,

While all about him the great fields tumble

To the blades of the thresher. He’s lucky

To be where he is, wild with all that happens.

He’s lucky he’s not one of the shadows

Living in the blond heart of the wheat.

This autumn when trees bolt, dark with the fires

Of starlight, he’ll curl among their roots,

Wanting nothing but the slow burn of matter

On which he fastens like a small, brown flame.

Reference Link:


there will be moments when

you will bloom fully and then

wilt, only to bloom again.

if we can learn anything from

flowers it is that resilience is born

even when we feel like we are 


Source: https://www.readpoetry.com/rebirth-by-alex-elle/

Green valleys stretching wide

with patchworking in brown

and it’s my home. 

I’ve walked every inch of the


Strayed from path and beaten trail

(though I never passed

them by without having

tried them once).

Idled beside cold trickling


and watched deer pass


full of beauty.

My heart is here

buried mid the dust

will be eroded by the rains

tempered by the winds and

winter snows.

But never shall it be 

extracted nor extricated

For its roots are in the


deep in the earth

holding fast

and strong

to that which it holds

dear. – JWD

Source: “Nature’s Quiet Conversations” by John Weeks (p.103)

The whiskey stink of rot has settled
in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises
when I touch the dying tomato plants.
Still, the claws of tiny yellow blossoms
flail in the air as I pull the vines up by the roots
and toss them in the compost.
It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready
to let go of summer so easily. To destroy
what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months.
Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit.
My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village
as they pulled the flax. Songs so old
and so tied to the season that the very sound
seemed to turn the weather.

Silence again. The glorious symphony
Hath need of pause and interval of peace.
Some subtle signal bids all sweet sounds cease,
Save hum of insects’ aimless industry.
Pathetic summer seeks by blazonry
Of color to conceal her swift decrease.
Weak subterfuge! Each mocking day doth fleece
A blossom, and lay bare her poverty.
Poor middle-aged summer! Vain this show!
Whole fields of Golden-Rod cannot offset
One meadow with a single violet;
And well the singing thrush and lily know,
Spite of all artifice which her regret
Can deck in splendid guise, their time to go!

Link: https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-calendar-of-sonnets-august/