(To Whom and For What?)

Dripping from my eaves,

White clods of snow keep falling

This Pearl Harbor Day.














Falling from the trees,
Large clods of whiteness descend;
Forest is gray/white.

White and wet my path;

Snow and rain mixing on it--

Melting mosaic.

As the snow/rain falls

Drops collect on the branch

To reflect the world.

In the gray gloom

A single lamp light burns bright

Over the trash cans.

In the hush forest

A soft moist chorus is heard:

Light rain and snow clods.

Plastic bag on branch

Anonymously grateful

(To whom and for what?)

Roadside stream still flows

Between the mushy snow banks.

Slush is in the air.

From Colorado

Everything is white;

A bright pall has descended;

Winter snow has come.

My lawn no longer--

White phantoms have taken it

And buried it deep.

Tree is sculpted white

Leaves have fled and snow returned

To rest for a spell.

The fence poles stand tall

Saluting the heavy sky

In their new white caps.

Berries on the bush

Dripping ice, snow and water

Maintain their red cheer.

The wise truckers know

Their journey is secure

Bottom of the hill.

The useless small bench

Remains useless in the snow;

No one sits in it.

From Colorado

This pickup truck has journeyed

To work in Woodstock.

Wooden Waterfall

December 4, 2016

Sunlight through my plants

Is captured in the green leaves;

Singular glowing.

Outside, the sunlight

Touches on the evergreens

And lays on the leaves.

The stream still sparkles

Across the street from my house;

Rooster keeps crowing.

Red berry garland

Adorns the lifeless phone pole;

Reminder perhaps?

Glowing ruby red

In the carpet of brown leaves--

A thrown plastic cup.

With breathless greeting

She passes by me swiftly,

Jogs into the sun.

Cascading down hill

Somebody's discarded fence--

Wooden waterfall.

In the tiny pond

Leaves merge with their reflections--

Through the looking glass.

Only the Wind Speaks

It's late, I'm grumpy;

Outside, everything is gray;

Inside, it's a mess.

Branch plays peek-a-boo

Between the slats of my fence,

Guided by the wind.

Pouring from the pipe,

The water keeps rushing;

(Collette keeps chewing).

With her dearest friend,

Olivia licks Collette,

Just keeping her clean.

Greenery is gone

From the bower of the stream.

Still, water rushes.

Empty wooden bench

In front of cold barbecue.

Chill wind up the road.

There are no shadows--

Road is empty, gray, silent;

Only the wind speaks.

Red, bright green, and brown

Coexist in the same place--

Two living, one dead.

Gray lies upon gray

Dim clouds covering the sky---

Wait! A spot of blue!

Just Biding Its Time

It's December first;

The twelfth month is called the tenth;

A calendar trick.













Brown light on bushes;
Forsythia's yellow--gone,
To join the brown leaves.

Yesterday's rain fall--

Today's turbulent rushing--

Liquid persistence.

Suspended in space

Brown leaves float on the water,

Just biding their time.

He's walking slowly;

Full of his thoughts and feelings--

Just like me, I guess.

Nestled in the crotch

Of the slender triplet trees:

Pine needles and leaves.

Barely visible

Decrepit stone wall stretches

To places unknown.

Underneath this mound

Lies a former living space--

Graveyard for a house.