Instant of Glory

Eight in the morning;
Flash of sunshine on the field.
It's twenty degrees.

Where did it come from,
This log, eaten by the bugs,
Then by woodpeckers?








"Cock a doodle doo;"
Rooster actually crowed that
And crowed it again.

Peter's old peace sign
Moved with him to the garage
Next to the pick-up.

Without any wind
Leaf's as still as a shadow,
Center of the road.

I make my own sounds
Clumping feet and rubbing cloth;
All else is silence.









Mansion on the hill
Greets the sun every morning
But makes no effort.

Rays of the morning
Light up the tiny pine tree--
Instant of glory.

Tiny flecks of light
Float through the cold morning air:
Sunshine on snow flakes.

Mute Hieroglyphics

Deceptive sun beams
Promise some warmth as I leave.
(But I bundle up).

A tangle of branches
Spreads across the sunlit road
In two dimensions.

The fence is moiré;
Swirling patterns from the sun
Splashed on the snow bank.








Two wooden fence posts
Frame the stream that flows beyond,
Tinkling faintly.








Dark parallel lines
Are everywhere the sun shines
(On parallel trees).












Even on Sundays
The sign sees fit to announce:
"School Bus Turn Ahead."








Upon the brown leaves
The brown rotting dead logs lie--
Perfect camouflage.

Abandoned cottage
With its hodgepodge of past lives
Crystallized in junk.

Mute hieroglyphics
Squiggling along the road
Tell of mystery.

Whooshing Somewhere Else

Softly the cars pass
Under the thick winter sky,
Whooshing somewhere else.

Why is this post here?
It was paced on purpose;
But now it's faded.

Once there was a child
Who walked in this field of snow
And left her footprints.








The unhitched wagon
Stands covered with snow and twigs,
Next to trampoline.

The birds are silent--
Perhaps it's too cold to sing.
Tree shadows are dim.












Gray ancient stone wall
Sees yet another season;
So slowly crumbling.

Large rock on a stump--
A strange totem by the road
Signifying what?








Shadows on the rock
Phantoms of the tree in front
Appear permanent.

So Many Sign Posts

Forsythia limbs
Toss wild in all directions
With frantic squirrels.

It's a gentle day;
Soft, as they say in Ireland;
The clouds are cushions.













Just a single twig
Disrupts the parallel lines
Of the wooden fence.

A thick stream of ice
Flowing down to the swift brook,
Suspended in time.












This "X" marks the spot;
Who knows just what spot it marks?
So many sign posts.












A single red eye
Peers bleakly from the tree trunk:
Cyclops in the woods.

Scampering swiftly
Chipmunk runs along the rocks,
Turns and watches me.

Towering and dead
Bare tree reaches to the sky;
Vines still crawl up it.

Yet Trembling in the Wined

Pine limbs swaying slowly,
Picking up the morning sun
In a breath of breeze.

Window in the dark
Peers in from the inner barn
Letting out the light.

A new hidden nest;
Small birds flutter about it,
Making way for the Spring.








White is the color--
The birch, snow, backs of trees,
Toyed with by shadows.

Even now there is shade--
Places where sun does not shine.
Is it cooler there?

The woods are dappled;
Black and white are partners
Under a blue sky.










Still they're hanging on--
Leaves from another lifetime;
Yet trembling in the wind.








What story is there
In these strange and twisted tracks
Turning round and round?

It Happened Last Night

Banister is white;
All the branches are frosted.
It happened last night.












Plastered on the tree
Particles of snow remain,
Showing direction.

In only one day
Stream has moved from frozen ice
To a Springtime flow.









The sturdy pine tree
Pushed over by the snow plow
Is growing sideways.

Snow topped totem bird
Peering out from the tree trunk
Screams out silently.

The pond is silent;
No loons are calling today
From its iced surface.

With snow on the ground
And the trees all frosted white
Spring is in the air.

The broken window
On the abandoned cottage
Makes no real difference.

Into Bursts of White Fluff

A cloud descending:
Air is blue gray and pregnant
With the snow to be.

Moisture's in the air;
Getting read to explode
Into bursts of white fluff.

The two goat statues,
As intent on watching me
As me watching them.

Like an angry bee
Chain saw rips into the wood
Scattering saw dust.

Blue topped pile of wood
Starts to spread across the lawn;
Chaos in motion.












Puddles of gray ice
Trail along the forest floor
Tracing the stream bed.









The frozen still marsh
As silent as a graveyard--
Slender weeds growing.









Through the bramble bush
White lawn chair is upside down--
Will be there for months.

Like a Messenger

The wood owl sculpture
Stands up against the tree trunk,
Watching with blind eyes.











Sun enters the barn
Moving among the shadows
Like a messenger.

Dead stumps communing
As they slowly rot away;
Closer to the earth.

Slender brown sapling
Bears desiccated blossoms
From the past summer.












It's warmer today;
You might think it's a heat wave:
Ten below freezing.












A strange path of snow
Winds its way into the woods.
Who will follow it?

Taking a short rest,
Twig hangs over the railing;
Until the next breeze.









Shadows shape the snow
That buries the old dead log
Making it softer.