The Past is Present

From Walks of January 30, February 1 and February 3, 2017

January 30, 2017

 Stark bushes are still;

Not a breeze moves their branches;

Few shadows on snow.

Pale sunlight shining;

Barely casts any shadows;

The road is quiet.

Glistening on snow--

Water to snow, then to ice:

The winter cycle.

Against the old barn

Standing pale and immobile--

Statue or alive?

Playing with water,

Sunlight rolls on the rushing stream

Casting bright sparkles.

Trampoline, deck chairs,

And the absence of humans--

Snow capped winter scene.

On Yerry Hill's peak

From a thousand miles away:

Call from New Orleans.

Sun through the dead leaf

Illuminates its orange:

Flash resurrection!

February 1, 2017

World is white outside;

A layer of snow covers

All that is beneath.

A strange thing goes past

Covered with white and with wheels:

A rushing auto.

Wooden owl's white;
He patiently holds his place
In all four seasons.

Still the dead brown leaf

Propped up within the branches;

(Waiting for rebirth?)

A clod of wet snow

Falls upon my eye glasses;

Then the lens falls off.

Still the brown survives;

Around it green evergreens.

It just won't let go.

Shadows on the snow,

Fickle as the sun itself,

Pass in a heart beat.

Bright sun, frigid cold;

Shadows lie still on the snow.

Nothing is moving.

White car rushes past

Leaving the whiteness of snow 

In the field beyond.

Smell of the cow barn

Takes the bite out of the cold;

A cozy cow home.

A thin layer of gray

Covers the bucolic pond--

Victory of ice!

Tall trees see themselves

In the ripples of the stream--

Rushing as always.

Stream bed has vanished;

Only the log bridge remains

To mark its demise.

Urging me forward

These arrows at the hill top

Stand in their motion.

Footprints in the snow--

Archaeological find--

The past is present.

A Bush Full of Drops

Crow cries in the mist;

Gray snow patches on the ground;

Cool air is vacant.

Drops hang from branches

Suspended and transparent;

A car swishes past.

Clear drops are hanging

On the rhododendron leaves

And the evergreens.

One delicate drop

Hung at the end of the branch.

I touched--it vanished.

A bush full of drops

Grows by the side of the road--

Each drop transparent.

Zealous woodpecker

Seems to be building a cave

In the passive tree.

Under the water

Trees grow in patches of sky;

Magic roadside pond.

Dim, dark forest path

Becomes shadowed fairy land

With the sun's magic.

Hand in Hand they Walk

The trees are silent;

Are they waiting now for me?

Why are they waiting?

Bright sun in morning;

Not a breeze stirs the tree limbs.

Wait! The wind chimes sway.

Hand in hand they walk:

Father-daughter on the road--

Trust and innocence.

Wheeling her barrow

Susan crosses her front lawn--

Her morning routine.

Luminescent grass

Guards the walkway to the house

Where nobody lives.

Forest is singing

Its high pitched tuneless rhythms.

Dark shadows lie still.

Line in roadside pond--

Is it shadow or substance?

Sunlight's not telling.

Against the Pale Sun

Just patches of snow;

Just pale green grass underneath;

Just the freezing cold.

Gray and white merging

Into a winter pastiche;

No sunshine breaks through.

Munching contented

Collette turns, gives me a look

Then back to munching.

Now the solar sign

Is buried in the snow bank

Covered with gray snow.

Stark trampoline stands,

Its feet covered with old snow;

Near empty lawn chairs.

On verge of falling:

Dead tree held by its neighbor

Suspended in air.

Kindred reflections

In the icy roadside pond--

One opaque and one clear.

Against the pale sun

Silhouetted tree stands out

In gray morning light.