Saying Silent Grace

A fat furry squirrel
Runs across the freezing wires
Fleeing from the cold.

 

 It's below zero
Yet sun shines and furnace hums,
And I still go out.

A frosted pine cone
Lying frozen on the ground,
As still as winter.

 

Waiting for breakfast
A bird sits on the feeder
Saying silent grace.

 

 

 Even the shadows
Seem frozen and motionless
On this frozen day.

Rusted flat roller
Has waited since last summer;
Ever so patient.

Footprint and pine cone
Line in close proximity;
Don't know each other.

Train yards of car tracks
Chris cross across the driveway
Calling past errands.

How Long Will They Wait?

 

Frantic tree limbs wave
Pressed by the relentless wind--
Invisible beast.

 

 Blowing the sun in
The wind has parted the clouds--
Instant of glowing.

 

Furious wind chimes
Driven by the careless wind
Bang out their protest.

 

Bright and bitter cold,
Sun lights up Yerry Hill Road,
Just for a second.

 

 Blowing open shack door;
The empty hanging red swing;
Both without humans.

 

 A single brown leaf
Skates and skitters on the road;
Wind howls in the trees.

 

 The old mother log
Covered by winter blanket.
(Dreaming of the Spring?)

 

 Seed pods in winter
Puffed up and ready to go.
How long will they wait?

What is their Sorrow?

 

Gray fog and white snow--
Landscape of indistinction,
Blurred even closely.

 

Spider in my sink
Frantically rushes about;
I turn on the spout.

Whisped clouds over pond;
Gray silhouette of the trees--
A dream universe.

New blooms on the bush:
Tear drops hang from every branch.
What is their sorrow?

Base of the tree trunk;
Yellow patches in the snow.
(Someone's been peeing.)

Now the woods are white;
Seems like they've always have been.
(But the snow's melting)

Pointing to the sky,
Sumac silhouettes still sand,
Their redness darkened.

Slush footstep sound
Rasps along the melting ice;
Only in winter.

Gray Light and Brown Leaves

 

Gray light and brown leaves-

A pale cold winter morning.

There's no sign of life. 

 

Phantom car drives by
Leaving everything a blank.
Furnace softly starts.

 

The old driftwood owl

Leans against the naked tree;

Even he seems tired. 

A leaf has fallen
Into the dead stump's innards--
Deep in the dark shade.

Old lichen and new

Populate the dead tree trunk,

Crowned by rich green moss.

Pale line of dead leaves
Marks the dry stream bed's journey
Into the forest.

Caught by the brambles,

Fallen bark is suspended

In time and in space.

The tree spirit stares
With a look of wonderment.
What is it seeing?

 

Winter is Dead Wood

Bluebirds and snowflakes
Sporadically float across
Morning sky and earth.

 

And then they're all gone:
Little puffs of frozen white
As if they were not.


 

 

Shrill shouts from next door--
Waldorf school or clucking hens?
(They're all just playing.)

 

Careless stacks of grass
Billow over the back yard.
Nature has returned.

 

With greater frequency
Snow flakes dance across my sight
Going nowhere fast.

On this dim cold day
Beacon of red from the bush--
Triumph of holly!

Stump congregation
Disintegrating swiftly
Will be gone by Spring.

Winter is dead wood-
Heaped, stacked or just tumbled
From rotten trunk.