The hand that shakes

A butterfly cinquain that doesn’t quite fit the remit for Colleen’s challenge as I have only used a synonym for one of the words.

 

The hand

that shakes the trees

is the wind’s, the voice that

calls in the night and stirs your dreams.

Listen

to its wild song woven with threads

of moon silver and the

gentle questions

of owls.

Gale

A cinquain for Colleen’s weekly challenge.

 

Bough bends

and cedes to the

power of wild stormwinds,

rattling the last acorns, dry leaves

rustling.

Winter morning with birds

Time for some strict syllabic poetry this morning. A cinquain sequence for Colleen’s challenge. Our first real frost and the last for a while I hope, is disappearing in a beautiful cloudless morning.

Photo©hedera.baltica

800px-Blue_tit_(26525351038).jpg

White the

winter meadow

furred stiff with frosted cold

that fell with the starlight in night’s

dark time.

 

Bright the

sun in cloudless

sky, sharp as ice shards, blue

as the powdered wings of blue tits

feasting.

 

Night cold,

fading faster

than melting ice, frost-fur

bathed in golden light where birds flit,

squabbling.