Sunday, January 18, 2015

Sunday Wandering

The trees' small round doors:
I would like to knock and call on all.
Who will greet me?

chattering their names but spring
is no closer.

If there are owls I
cannot see them but poison
ivy twists up to look.

Who is this cruel shrub
pushing catkins from their nests
into cold January?

The ice booms
beckoning fishermen and
intrepid explorers.

You hurry and cover
more distance but I walk
and find more wealth.

Early winter,
thin snow, ample red berries,
birdsong and squirrel games.

Wanting to wander far
but wiser trees creak a warning
the storm is near.


Between two days
cutting like slivers of ice,
the warmth of bird song.

The thin snow awaits
its transformation into
spring's rippling streams.

Hand-sawn, fresh split, stacked:
maple, apple, pine, and birch
. . . but for next year.

Monday, January 12, 2015


listening for ice
invisible darkness drips
brittle pines crack

Thursday, January 1, 2015

winter night

not full but bright enough
for a walk, the moon invites
my quiet steps outside

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

December 31st

The red squirrel is terrorizing
the gray squirrel at the feeder;
neither knows that tomorrow . . .
this will all change.

The brown pond is refreezing
over dozing fish and frogs;
none know that tomorrow . . .
this will all change.

The Aztecs cycled through
two calendars, 360 and 365
days, which aligned to restart
once every 52 years,
and today some 40 different calendars
diverge on the date of the new year:
youths lollygagging into the year 26;
elders dragging past the year 7000.

Unlike us, the flora and fauna
will be nonplussed when tomorrow. . .
nothing changes.

Thursday, December 25, 2014

Christmas: Three Fours for Twelve

Part I
One anonymous
treetop complainer hollers at
the bubbling blackbirds in pines.

Self-named chickadees
invisible in evergreens
sing of a warm Christmas day.

Spring in Winter
fills rills with sparkling
whispering water.

Still unbent by snow
green ferns sprawl uphill
on rust red pine needles.

Part II
It is here, today,
a day of peace:
blow winds, this,
to places far way.

WWI Christmas truce:
enemies dropped their arms
and used arms to embrace:
‘This is good;
let’s just go to our homes.’

It is as hard to make peace
as to clutch
a fist full of water.

Today’s news, religion without god;
this summer, god without religion;
and for some, the two bind together:
all seeking peace.

Part III
Tawny, fluffy hens
peck their breakfast,
expect no less nor more
of this day.

A house barks
when I approach and pass;
no good news for the dog inside.

Does the spring warmth
of this Christmas day
blow green dreams
into the hollows of bears?

The main road bustles with cars
speeding to Christmas;
I turn back into the wild wind.

warm wind
has blown the sky to blue
and memories to mind:
fifteen I am sticky, walking a hot camp path,
thirty strolling on Nantucket with friends,
twenty off-season with friends on a gull-cold beach
ten a child singing the endless 12 Days of Christmas
to a patient audience:
at sixty this is my twelve
for patient readers.

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Reading Omens

No neat V due south
                        but a scribble of scattered lines
     swishing across the blank grey sky,
           spots enigmatic as tea leaves.
Is autumn leaving?
Winter breathing
cold and close?
              The geese will not commit.

Then a long, silent pause;
               no passengers overhead.


The nothing is
punctuated loudly
by a lone pair of geese
            no hurry
                             no hurry
                                              no hurry
winter is