Spilling from the sky,
Snowflakes falling
On a dying autumn,
Means hide traces
To render fall faceless
In a snow blanket pall,
Hiding dead places
Of fall’s grey sprawl,
This season suffers
With architect of cold,
Be Jack Frost’s hold
Of long enduring nights,
Held winter’s white toll!
One ought want find
Avoid the pall,
Of a state inclined
To suffer stall,
Abiding coulda
To survive,
A mental bent
Of less than wild,
Thru vacillating
In woulda tried,
Instead of plunging
Both feet in the tide,
Though ne’er but clear
One shoulda chose the ride,
Save to discover the other side
Of procrastinator’s thin abide,
To suffer coulda, woulda, shoulda,
And thus forgoing the worth while!
Poetry on a canapé 