What Bird Calls, a poem

 What Bird Calls

I know not what bird calls across the dusk;
  seeking southern forests, it will sing there tomorrow.

Silent wings beat through my darkened skies; in dream
  only can I fly, to distant sun-lit lands.

Sleep now; morning comes and I must once more
  prepare for winter, not expecting spring.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

somewhat in the shape of a sijo 

A Winter Poem

The kitchen becomes my world on these cold days,
  revolving around a book and a cup of tea.
Let the north wind call at window and door;
  let her voice lose itself among the trees.
These days come and go, clad in their darkness,
  and I remain until I may seek spring.

Stephen Brooke ©2024

not exactly a sijo but in the shape of one

Lentils, a poem

Lentils

Through windows obscured by evening’s frost
  I watch the gray ending of another day.
The trees have become their naked shadows;
  all the bird are long flown away.
Lentils slowly cook in the kitchen,
  with garlic and onions and green herbs.
Their fragrance fills my empty house;
  there is none here to share them.
They will warm my body this night
  but my heart is filled only with winter.

Stephen Brooke ©2024