Under the Wisped Clouds

Ten below freezing
Before I go out the door;
What? Am I crazy?!

 

 Bare limbs in bright sun
Looking naked this morning;
Time to hit the road.

The strange white sign post
Sits on the lawn near my house;
What does it point to?

A tangle of beige:
Dry Pampas plants and fence posts--
A winter palette.

In the frigid air
Two crows cry at each other
Under the wisped clouds.

Berries on the ground
Seem unusually misplaced;
(It's before their time).

The overturned tree--
It's roots are a solid wall
Against the bright sun.

How long will they last,
These dried leaves on a dead tree,
Before the wind takes them?

Wind Blows the Light In

 My lawn is snow white
With patches of bright sunlight
Weaving in the green.

 

 Way below freezing,
Sun dance in and out of clouds;
Wind blows the light in.

 

What sharp dark shadows
The tree makes upon the lawn:
Reflections in grass.

 

The wind rules the road;
Even gloves do not protect
From its icy touch.

The face of the stream
Is quiet and immobile;
Frozen light sparkles.

There, around the bend
There's always something unseen;
This time it's winter.

Walk to and walk fro--
Two very different journeys,
Though it's the same road.

Wind in the forest
Billowing sounds from distance--
Whispers, roars and cries.

For eleven years--
Phone book jammed between tree limbs
Still holding its shape.

Down Here, There's Just Me

Early lawn shadows
Cast their long, soft, dark fingers
Towards the morning sun.

 

 Shadows of shovel
Play across my window screen
In the bright sunlight.

 

 Now the buds are brown;
Forsythia's a Spring dream
Of bursting yellow.

 

A pale morning moon
Shines faintly over tree tops.
A distant dog yips.

Cold wind up the road
Lightly stirs the mirror stream
Into small ripples.

Delicately poised,
Broken trees are supported
By wooden neighbors.

Even gnarled old stumps
Look strangely mysterious
In the morning light.

Way beyond those hills
Are bear, deer, coyote, fox;
Down here there's just me.

No Motion--No Sound

Brief spurt of sunshine
After the passing rain storm;
Sky is gray again.

 

 My old snow shovel
Leans against the front window,
Next to the Buddha.

 

The carved wooden owl

Is melting into the tree;

(It can't fly away).

The old rusted bell
Hangs still on the wooden fence--
No motion--no sound.

On the rotting trunk
New shelf fungi have sprung out--
Beige vitality.

The old wooden fence
Lies ready for the winter--
This time as kindling.

Even a small child
Could not sit on this low bench.
What's the use of it?

Rumbling up ahead--
Blurred tones, indistinct rhythms:
Van blasts radio.

Where to Find the Light?

It's almost freezing;
The sun is taking a rest;
I muster my will.

Outside it is dark;
Inside, it's even darker.
Where to find the light?

In the woods, a tent;
On driveway, a newspaper;
On the road, it's me.

Even red berries,
Shining forth their winter light,
Huddle in brown husks.

Standing by their truck,
The culvert construction guys
Don't know where to go.

Flickering bright light:
A tiny white butterfly
Flies across the road.

Top of the bare tree
Two solitary brown leaves
Face the darkening sky.

In the empty house
Pillow leans on the window
Waiting for a head.