James W. Spain

The country store
has stood sentry for over a century.

Now worn and tired,
...

This young child
by the name of Grace,

was born into poverty
...

Whose woods these are
he did not know.

The road less traveled
...

A tribute poem
...

After the storm
a calmness returns,

the roaring sea settles
...

This thin veil
between life and death

is lifted at times revealing
...

The bare
silver birch trees

glistening in
...

You could hear the sound
of the gently falling snow

late this Christmas day
...

The visit was brief
though it felt like hours on

this cold bitter day
...

The deep snow
cushioned each step

as I walked into the deep
...

The dream continued
each and every evening.

The cold nights at the Vermont inn
...

The brilliant sunset
has painted the sky blue,
...

I first saw
the Victorian woman

faintly through the century old glass
...

This crisp October day,
As dawn succumbs to night,

I venture out alone,
And contain such fright,
...

It has been said
that death is simply passing

from one room to another
...

As I stare at the decades old photograph
into the eyes of my Grandmother I can not

help but to think of the life she once lived
...

A death certificate and
sepia toned photographs too,

all that remains of a life
...

I lived a life,
perhaps unlike yours,
but a life it was.
...

The window frame
with the wavy pane still,

a portal to yesterday,
...

The temperature chills,
Early morning starts to fog.

Hot, sleepless nights,
...