They Have Their Reasons

 

December 12

How strange the shadows
Falling on this snow crust day.
It's the frozen sun.

 

 My large standing plant,
Leaves, thirsting towards the window,
Drinking in the sun.

Printed in the snow
Foot marks of the meter man
Came by yesterday.

 

Chickens on the road;
They're not choosing to cross it.
They have their reasons.

Touching the swift stream
A finger of ice sticks out
Pointing to the sky.

The mother log sleeps
Covered by her white blanket;
Her decay frozen.

This frozen tundra
Is filled with dandelions
When the Spring returns.

 


The abandoned board
Once served as a small foot bridge
Over the road stream.

December 13, 2014

It's not freezing now,
And the sun looks just as bright.
No birds and no cars.

Shadows mix with the snow:
Bird drops from forsythia,
Floating out of sight.

 

Other side of street--
A yawning road lies between
Where I stand--and there.

 

 Hanging suspended
In the crystalline blue sky:
A single white cloud.

 

Rippling shadows
Fall from the old wooden fence--
Their own dimension. 

 

 Far into the woods
A dog barks repeatedly;
A comforting sound.

 

High up on the hill
A man in a black trench coat.
(Or is it a bush?)

Through the shack's window
A gleaming portal is seen.
(It's really a clock).



 

'

Whispering "Winter"

  

A blank white canvas
Lies on unresisting fields
Whispering "winter."

 

 Silence of winter
Drops slowly on the landscape
Without a shudder.

 

Three frosted pine cones
Lie at the edge of the road
Far from their mother.

 

 The chicken wire fence
Now stark against the white field--
Bleak winter contrast.

 

 A few white snow flakes
Dropping softly from the sky--
Foreshadow winter.

 

 Slipping silently
From house to house he slides:
Sneaky meter man.

 

Green courtiers have grown
Around the emperor stump.
Soon, they'll obscure him.

 

 With silent flutters
Small birds hop around the bush;
Winter meeting place.

Waving White as Snow

Way below freezing;
Why am I going outside?
It's so warm in here.

 

Forsythia bends--
Some creature landed on it;
A bird or a squirrel?

 

Winter or summer--
Olivia in the barn
Just chewing her cud.

 

Water flows swiftly
Escaping the touch of the ice;
Fleeing from its grasp.

Always mysteries,
Roads that wind up out of sight
To the ends of the earth.

The feeble mail box
Will it last through the winter?
It tips already.

 

The abandoned tire

Gilded by the morning ice,

Now a shining jewel.

 

They refuse to leave:
The silken milkweed seed puffs,
Waving white as snow.

A Sad Hollow Song

Freezing yellow sun
Lights up the patches of snow--
December seventh.

Is it winter yet?
It is creeping so slowly
On small frosted paws.

Tree shadows are etched
On the brown telephone pole--
Lights with darkness.

 

Craggy mountain peaks
Glisten in the morning sun:
Roadside detritus.  

Dead brown leaves tremble
In the cold morning breezes.
Bright sun shines through.

From high on the hill
Wind chimes sing to the road
A sad hollow song.

Embraced by shadows
Old house merges into light.
Where is its substance?

The woods are singing
This time almost a whisper--
Trivial gossip?

Sliver of Brightmess

Gray sky is pregnant
Laden with whirling snowflakes
Scheduled to descend.

 

The tree limbs lift up
Raising their piny branches
To the lordly sky.

 

Inside the dark barn
A tiny slice of light gleams--
Sliver of brightness.

 

 He has a question;
As he  pokes head through the fence,
But can't get it out.

 

Errant wooden slat
Lies at the base of the fence.
Leaves will cover it.

 

Rotting mother log
Blooms as if it is Spring time,
While winter draws near.

 

Stump congregation
Dissolves, sinks into the earth.
What trace will it leave?

Two dead leaves are trapped
By slender naked fingers.
They will not escape.