A Day of Shadows

It's warm today;
Shadows on the rounded snow;
Last day of the year.












A day of shadows
Painted sharply on the trees;
Echoed on the house.












Precarious snow
Hangs from the tree trunk like moss;
Stream tinkles softly.










Muffled radio
Emits blurred sound far away;
Music or talking?










St. Francis stands blankly;
His flowers reduced to twigs--
Sorry winter flock.



I don't need my gloves;
Snow has melted from the road;
Winter takes a breath.

Footprints in snow melt;
Still point their way to the woods;
Soon they will be gone.

From the tree trunk cave
White figure watches the road--
Snow statuary.

Hope Springs Eternal

Sunlight on the snow;
Then clouds shift to gray again;
Winter weather dance.

How is it so warm
When the world is coated white
With frozen water?









Bucket's not empty;
It stood there while it was filled
With falling snow flakes.










These plants are slender
That poke up through the thick snow.
Fence not so lucky.










Snow bird in tree trunk
Looks into the gray blank sky,
Watching the weather.












Frail old milkweed pod
Holds its seeds against the snow--
Hope springs eternal.

Still the brown leaves hang
Like holey sails in the wind,
Fluttering weakly.









'


Crazy lady screams;
I cannot hear what she says
Or what she's feeling.

CHRISTMAS EVE DAY

Hira and Lucy
With me on my walk today;
No haiku needed.

Operatic Wind

My front porch is white
Like a paint brush came by night
Wielded by fairies.


How lazy they fall,
The sparse fat flakes of snow;
The wind is harsher.

Silhouetted trees
Sway against the leaden sky;
Wind billows up road.









Not sunlight but snow
Fell upon this heavy rock
Leaving its shadow.

Operatic wind
Moves through whisper to loud song
With trees as backup.












The Chinese were right:
Just look at snow on old logs
To see Death is white.












Three hundred million
That's how many years ago
This boulder was born.












The abandoned shack
Filled with forgotten objects;
Each with its story.

Suspended Motion

Gray Capricorn day;
Clouds and sun vie for the sky;
Furnace hums softly.

Always near his mom,
Baby bull peeks around her butt.
I'm of scant interest.

Blue sky over clouds;
Two worlds presented at once.
Distant saw buzzes.












Stream chortles softly
With a shelter of ice;
Liquid tympani.












Bungi at tree's base--
Mystery of former game
Played by absent kids.

Frozen waterfall
Arrested in its decline--
Suspended motion.

Tacked to the rough wood
Face of a lost dog peers out--
Sorrow on a pole.












Suspended in time
Roots of the upended tree
Grasping at shadows.

Thank You, Mr. Goose

It's fifteen degrees;
The thermometer says so.
Now I will find out.








Crisp white patina
Covers the field and bushes;
Some slashes of sun.









Swept by rays of sun
Small pine tree glows in the light--
Christmas ornament.












Car is warming up;
Engine purring in the driveway--
Winter symphony.

Bright morning sunshine
Etches shadows in the trunk;
Frozen dark and light.












Way below freezing,
Yet goose feathers keep me warm.
Thank you, Mr. Goose.

Next to evergreen
The old ghost of summer past
Covered with brown leaves.












Does moss ever die?
Bursting in spring and summer;
Glowing in winter.

Etched by the Fairies

Bird house is empty;
Ornament every winter;
But birds will return.












Gray, below freezing;
Distant wail of fire engines;
Tension in the air.








Green leaves are frosted;
Soft blue light has descended.
Now where is the snow?

Streamlet is frozen
On way to rushing steam.
(In cold, speed is all.)

How long will they last,
These brown desiccated balls
To conjure the spring?












When I think of you
The woods and road disappear.
You devil, angel.

On top of the trees
Scattering of leaves hang on.
For what are they waiting?

A frosted forest:
Window of abandoned house,
Etched by the fairies.

This Dark Can't Be Lit

My heart is heavy;
The bright sun can't help me now;
This dark can't be lit.


Forsythia husks
As distant from yellow sprays
As then is from now.

Acrid wood smoke smell
Brings memories of winters
In the midst of this.


Silver filament
Peeks out of the milk weed husk
Still biding its time.


Bottom of mailbox
The house number has fallen.
Who will know the house?


Patches of bright green
Thrive in the frozen brown woods.
What is their secret?


Two new stump buddies
That I've missed for all these years;
Ten feet off the road.

At end of my walk
I look at my first haiku--
Very long ago.