All poems contained on this page were 
written by and are the property of Betty Lee

Sensing a Metamorphosis

As seasons commence the transition,
Winds stop biting red noses and
Zephyrs kiss pink cheeks instead.
Soft rains purge winter's gray threat 
Creating a clear, blue dome overhead.

Snow banks shrink silently away.
Leaving soft brown mire behind.
Feet no longer crunch frozen crust
But gently echo "squish-squash"
As they intone a spring melody.

I inspire agape, taste last year's grit
Being swept away by March's broom.
Pine smoke drifts down country roads
Mingled with the essence of maple syrup
From sugar shacks getting closer.

In a barn, the fragrance of fresh fur floats
From a box as pups nurse eagerly, and
Tiny whimpers expand as the runt is nudged
From the dame's teat by the larger sibs.
A lamb bleats as it tests unused legs.

Shoulders, tired of winter's chores,
lay bared Absorbing vitamin C full strength.
Canvas sneakers replace felt-lined boots.
Mittens and hats lie abandoned in piles
As heads and hands strip naked again.

Brooks swell, fed by winter's liquidation
Blowdown hinders the hiker's intrusion.
Vernal green shoots whisper promises and
Carbon-speckled mounds in shaded nooks
Reluctantly surrender to a new season. 

circa 1985

Snowy Thoughts

The snow lay about on the ground.
The wind was howling all around.
A lonely soul walked by, entranced,
As to the ground the snowflakes danced.

He didn't seem to notice a sound
That was in the air, all around.
He didn't seem to notice the hue,
The sky was grey instead of blue.

He only saw the beautiful white
Snow coming down, like birds in flight.
He strolled on by, quite unaware
That I was watching from my chair.

Inside the house, as warm as can be,
The two of us wondered, myself and me,
If there was, perhaps, a chance that I
Was letting God's wonders pass me by.

Why couldn't I look at snow and smile?
I hadn't done that in quite a while.
Perhaps the stranger, out in the wild,
Had remembered how to feel like a child. 

circa 1974

My Friends, The Leaves

All summer long I've watched as they've flourished.
By the Sun and the rain they have been nourished.
From the first bud of spring so frail and so tiny
They have grown to full size, some rough, some shiny.

They have given me shade from the hot Sun's rays.
They've muffled the sounds of children at play.
They have provided beauty and splendor profuse.
They have helped purify the air that I use.

All summer long they have been shades of green,
Now tents of brown, red and yellow are seen.
The leaves are drifting now through the air
And soon all the tree branches will be bare

And the trees will take their long winter's naps
Without the protection of their great leafy caps.
I feel so sad at the sight of them all lying 
About in great piles, as they're all now dying.

And as I see the leaves all coming to their ends
I feel that I am losing some very dear friends. 

circa 1975

Autumn Leaves 

The autumn leaves now drift to the ground.
They fall lightly, without making a sound.
We do not hear even one mournful call
As to their deaths, great multitudes fall.
Scattered about by the wind and the rain.
They change the looks of God's great domain.
No longer is my backyard plain old green.
Now red, yellow, gold and brown are seen.
Beautiful colors, strewn about in a clutter,
Awesome, quiet, they lie out in the gutter.
The neighbors rake theirs out to the curbing,
But I haven't the heart to disturb them.
They paint such a lovely, calming scene;
I have to leave them where they've been.
I can not shove them around with a rake
And pile them for the street cleaners to take.
So I'll just let them die in their own way.
I'm sure that nature intended it that way.
After I see the new buds in the spring
I'll discard their remains while I sing
A song of dignity, ever light and gay
Because they died in a dignified way.

circa 1975

First Snowfall

The children awoke in a spell
And watched as snowflakes fell
Their hearts filled with glee
At the sight of each tree.

But when they looked around,
They soon noticed the ground
Had hardly a white trace
And the smile left each face.

Yes, it started snowing today
But it's not going to stay,
For though the air has a chill,
The ground is too warm still.

As long as the frost's not here
The white stuff won't adhere
To the tiny blades of green
And create a winter scene. 

There'll be no snowman today
Nor a fort in which to play.
They can't lie down, wiggle around
And leave angel prints on the ground. 

But if they dress really fast,
Before the snowfall has passed,
One snowball could be flung
Or flakes caught on a tongue. 

circa 1974

Veiled Beauty 

The snow is on the bough,
The rooftop and the ground.
It lies there, in splendor,
Making not a sound.
Tiny little crystals of snow,
Not one of them like another,
Made from naught but cold air 
Blown through a cloud of water.
Its whiteness can be seen 
Far as the eye can behold.
The morning light dances
On it, shimmering like gold. 

By noon, the glitter is all gone,
We see only a blanket of white,
But still we are held in awe
By such a magnificent sight.
At twilight we look out,
Shocked by what we see now.
The splendor is all gone,
The beauty robbed somehow.
We rush out-of-doors to see
If we can find a solution.
The thief, we soon discover,
Is the veil of man's pollution. 

circa 1976

Three O'Clock Shadows

In the early morning hours, while other people sleep,
I oft sit and watch the shadows as they slowly creep.
Across my yard and down the driveway they slither,
To and fro, back and forth, to yon and back to hither.
Each time the breeze blows and moves the clouds around, 
The trees wave back playfully to them from the ground. 
And so they go about their games by early morning's light,
Playing "Make-a-shadow" by the moon's waning light. 

circa 1983

Climbing

Climbing, climbing up a very steep hill
With the Sun shining down on my back.
Sometimes I wonder if I ever will
Get up to the peak and then back.

A mossy rock can be so darned pretty
If it's in the woods, back off the trail.
But if it's in the middle of an eddy
It will take it's toll, without fail.

Tiptoeing carefully across the rocks
And then in the stream, a sound thud.
It's over the ledges and up the rocks,
Through the leaves and through the mud.

Whether it's in springtime or in the fall,
There is plenty to see and to feel.
Sometimes I feel about ten feet tall
And I wonder if it's a dream or for real.

The feeling I get from being on top
Is like being in a world all alone.
If I had my choice, I'd never stop
Sitting up here, on this peak of stone.

circa 1972
Climbing was published in Adirondack Peeks, Magazine of the Adirondack Forty-Sixers 
a few years ago, along with my story, The Beginning of the Trail.

Revelations of the Woods 

A hike in the woodlands may reveal,
The core of an apple, a banana peel,
Skin of an orange, floating in a brook,
Part of a sandwich, half of a book,
Someone's old sneaker, signed by "Bud",
One holey red sock lost in the mud,
A yellow bandana tied onto a tree,
A pair of old jeans with a torn knee,
Candy wrappers tossed over a shoulder,
Bubble gum parked on top of a boulder,
Cardboard boxes and empty paper bags,
Cans and bottles and dirty old rags
Strewn about in every single gutter,
Left in the woods creating a clutter,
The remains of lunch or someone's picnic.
The sight's enough to make anyone sick!
Trashcan's empty, mess is on the ground.
The litterbug's have sure been around.
Litter over here and litter over there,
Those pests will leave it anywhere!
They do their best when hard at play
To make a big mess all along the way.
They leave everything such a disgrace!
Do they really belong to the human race?
I think they all need new eyeglasses
Or else they are just plain jackasses,
For even a pig, who loves rolling in dirt,
Wouldn't leave behind his old torn shirt
Or a pair of shoes that're half worn out.
For what he packs in, he'll surely pack out!

circa 1974

Request From the Autumn Hiker 

At the end of the trail,a roaring brook,
the gold of the forest and one last look
at hills we climbed on summer days
and things not fettered by man's harsh ways.
Is it too much to ask for one last show
before it's all hidden by winter's snow ? 

circa 1975

Who's Coming?

(Link to poem with water applet)


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I made this background from a picture that I took in 
Washington State at the Tatoosh Motel in August of 1996.
Please do not take it without permission; 
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copyright 1997-2005 by Betty Lee, Glens Falls, NY