FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH--BENT BY THE ICED WIND

 These were written on Friday, December 13

 

Twenty-four degrees;
It's ten more than yesterday.
We have a heat wave!

 

 Without the sunshine
Even icicles are drab.
The snow waits to fall.

 

 Three tiny fat birds
Perching on thin tree branches
Decide where to fly.

 

 The snow covered log
Lying in the mirrored stream
Casts its own shadow.

 

 The distant chain saw
Sings its mosquito buzz song
In the cold gray air.

 They seem delicate--
These small spidery saplings
Bent by the iced wind.

 Sun breaks through the clouds;
Radiance showers the road;
Before darkness falls.

 

Ice Captures the Trees

 

Sharp shadows on lawn;
Bright sunlight doesn't warm things--
Just illuminates.

Wires, they're everywhere,
Slicing into the air and trees,
Black humming silence.

Pecking in the snow,
tiny bird just keeps going
Looking for treasure.

Piercing the iced air:
Shouts of the snow bound children
Flying on their sleds.

Foot prints in the snow;
I bend over to see them
And realize they're mine.

A noise in the woods;
I turn and think I see it--
But there's nothing there.

Stump congregation
Suddenly wise and older
With their white snow hair.

Ice captures the trees,
Coating the tree limbs with light--
Shimmering, frozen.

Mountains in the Snow

 

Sun shining on snow;
But it's ten below freezing.
An oxymoron?

Icicle glimmers;
Hanging from my front porch eve;
Magnifies the sun.

Naked in the sun
Locust tree extends white hands
To the silent sky.

Mountains in the snow
Whipped into shape by the wind
Then frozen in place.

How long has it been
Since this empty snow filled swing
Flew to the heavens?

Rotting mother log
Gave birth to ferns and saplings;
Now sleeps in the snow.

It's waited nine months--
This ornamented mailbox
For its time to come.

"Snow covered wood bridge"
Sounds so very romantic.
(It's just two feet long).

A Mask of Blankness

 

Snow tipped evergreens,.
Like children playing old men
With Halloween wigs.

My little bird house
Looking like Merry Christmas
With its frosted roof.

How silent the road;
A million snow flake voices
Are gently muted.

Groaning from the woods:
Insistent busy chain saw
Cuts through the silence.

Lightly dipped with snow
The long gone lifeless brown leaves
Still hang from the branch.

Tongue hanging way out,
Expectant thirsty mailbox
Receives communion.

A mask of blankness--
Snow obliterates the words;
Now, sign is just shape.

Askew in a ditch
The poor car took a wrong turn.
Now it has to rest.

Hushing to the Ground

White has descended;
Squirrel shakes the snow off the wire;
My lawn has burst brightness.

Winter's pale and white;
The snow covers everything.
Praise! Hallelujah!

 

No hint of yellow--
Forsythia's coated white.
Spring is hidden now.

Fence posts have white hats;
They don them effortlessly,
Welcoming the snow.

Still, mirror ripples
Beneath the frosted branches.
Stream whispers softly.

Steadfast umbrella:
Sapling captures snow and light,
Simply by standing.

Falling silently,

A clod of snow leaves the branch,
Hushing to the ground.

Sparkles of water
Dot the snow laden branches--
Sun doing its work.