« Frank De Canio » Winter Harvest I garner branches in a sheaf who once plucked pear and nectarine. And daffodils that gave relief to me are nowhere to be seen. My nights are spent in threadbare grief, and balmy days, wherein I’d glean sweet happiness, however brief, have vanished with the season’s green in shades of autumn, like a thief. Now once abundant trees are lean and russet has become the chief estate of hues that intervene to lighten up the grey motif that seals my fate with harsh routine. String Theory It’s always music when you’re young. Adversity’s a cello bow. Dashed hopes are melodies that flow from violin strings tautly strung. Life’s burdens are guitars we’ve slung around our necks so tunes can grow from the discordances of woe. And even sniffling sighs are sung in measures that let singers crow their triumph over loves that stung their senses. What do lovers know of sobs when bellows fill each lung? And so I wish as gale winds blow that age possessed a honeyed tongue. Frank De Canio lives in New Jersey and works in Manhattan. Psychology major - a few credits short of a BA degree. He loves the theater, music of all kinds ranging from Bach to Bob Dylan, Shakira, Latin pop, opera, etc., some world music. He has written over 1000 poems, so he's bound to repeat himself. He has been published in Red Owl, Rook Publications journal, Pleiades, Danger, Nuthouse, and a few more journals forthcoming including Medicinal purposes.