(They Have Yet to Meet)

Friday, March 13

Across frigid air,
The sound of a mooing cow--
Olivia calls. 

 

A Schubert quintet
Plays on this cold winter morning,
Warming me inside.

 

White water tumbles:
The streams are speaking again
Lisping syllables. 

 

Line of frozen filth:
Snow banks have received the cars
And embalmed their fumes.

The buds are still brown;
The green ones wait patiently
For a touch of warmth.

 

Is it ice? plant? stone?
Frozen monster by the road,
A winter bastard.

 

 A man with a sack
Carries his silence with it.
(Was he ever there?)

On top of the tree
Cardinal calls for his love.
(They have yet to meet.)

Sunday, March 15

 Gray winter's still here;
Birds peck in the yielding snow.
Quiet Sunday morn.

 

The new bird feeder
Perplexes the birds and squirrels.
Hunger will guide them.

 

 

Olivia itch
Relieved against the barn door--
Ahhh. Bovine pleasure!
 

 

 Fleeting clouds above
Reflect in the stream below.
(As above, below)

 

 Windows through windows,
The empty house invites me
To the other side.

When the sun peeks out
Shadows appear in the woods
Lying on the snow.

A few snow flakes fall;
The wind bellows in the woods;
Winter is still here.

Against my eye glass
A stray snow flake has melted--
Liquid perception.