The Pain of Winter
The tips of fingers numb with cold,
The pain, bone chilling,
Thoughts of boyhood, walking the tree breaks,
Hoping to shoot a pheasant, or duck off the pond,
Food for the table,
Chores before school, the return of school,
Where the pain of winter, not only physical,
Icy stares cut through the patches on my clothes,
And my country ways.
A Kearney Afternoon
October in Nebraska,
Overhead, cranes and geese dance on the wind,
Keeping time with their songs, and honking,
Winter soon here,
Fall over, the harvest done,
The year remembered now, the hard work, and the crop,
Fortified with the memories, to survive the upcoming year.
Douglas Polk is a poet living in the wilds of central Nebraska with his wife and son, two dogs and three cats. Polk has had over 1,000 poems published in hundreds of publications.