Waiting for Snow

Rather than pull the blinds

to shut the frozen front out

I sit. Waiting. For first flakes.

Moving to the kitchen 

busying the knife with chop

Onions. Garlic. Spice.

Out the window, birds fly

to evergreen perch 

as the first snow finally falls.

Snow suspends time and 

blankets faded summer growths

in winter’s warmth.

Quiet stills street sounds as

traffic moves to busier streets

before the snow plows. 

Glad to be in flannel still

I hide behind heavy clouds

like winter’s first full moon.

The Day in Cinquain

Awake

to meet the day

so still the hour at hand

alarms will soon expect response

arise 

At work

minutes slow dance

around a floor of clocks

in slow repeat across the dial

of time

Midday

venetian blinds

allow filtered sunlight

shadows scatter across the floor

diffused

At home

unlaced unwound

not bound by rule nor hour

some shoulds get lost in folly thought

undone

Still dusk

salmon colored

clouds skim across tree lines

cicadas warble lonely cries

for night

Asleep

day dreams turn dark

subconscious mind awash

with scenes unforgetting of past

lost time

Prayer that the Cake Rises

The cake has risen: 

the toothpick comes clean when inserted in the center;

The cake has risen: 

time and temperature cooperated in the experiment;

The cake has risen:

the baker, more so the celebrant, will rejoice;

The cake has risen: 

the icing will not have to fill the crater left from a fall;

The cake has risen indeed in the oven, one of a handful to do so successfully.

Glorious beauty beheld with the perfectly formed round,

Glory to the baker, whose measure proved precise.

Evergreen

It pulled out of the ground easily

the root had not taken hold of the soil

with its connection to sustenance interrupted;

rigor mortis was beginning to set

as branches gray and brittle

had not thrived from the interference.

The tree was a donor’s gift 

that she planted for no particular reason

in a flower patch next to the garage.

Never mind that it would grow tall

and its roots would crowd under 

the siding and, likely, the cement floor;

but it didn’t whither and with attention

began to look alive and carry on

with living season to season.

She moved forward, not taller,

counting out twenty two pills daily

to feed roots and thwart disease.

But then something changed, she

dropped needles and leaned to hold

on to an upright position.

Over a winter, wind chill

when growing things are silent 

balancing on a dark edge

she left easily, not tethered to

the Earth as others, in fear, do

not alive, but always ever green.

Pink Moon

Night sky opened 

and poured out

the water necessary

for flowers to bloom

as they are apt

to begin in April.

But it rained,

the brightest moon

sulked above clouds

shining no pink,

but pulling it out

of the buds

ready to show.

Shards

The birds, yes, lovely songs

for long walks along deserted streets

in Spring when they populate trees

and nestled into evergreens to 

build summer homes. Even the 

cat’s ears pick up and her tail fluffs

to the droning chirp that is constant.

But on this walk, wanton along a road

without sidewalk, gray Nissans and 

Ford pick-up trucks unaware that 

feet hug the line that is painted to

indicate a shoulder, not much really,

that keeps me in line on the route.

The birds, yes the birds, sing, but

I cannot see them, so I look for

something else to savor.

Staring down at my feet so that 

I don’t trip on bubbles of ashphalt,

the road is littered with shards 

of metal and glass carelessly thrown

from the cars that move too fast along.

Shards of glass I have seen before,

not by accident or torn from steel,

in portrait depicting a story from a mind

not quite like the others on the block

hung in a museum of others who

envisioned the shards of their mind

and unusual materials to create

something whole, purposed.

Oh the birds, yes, I hear them,

but I will look for guidance in the litter,

find patterns in pieces of broken

glass and strips of torn rims and plates

to make sense of the shards of thought 

that scatter mosaicly in my thoughts

as the season changes from frost to song.

Clouds

Over ripe, hung low

from heaven’s branches, 

I suppose-

or the sky for those 

who believe in science

and have lost faith in an

exalted power;

but to the clouds,

hung heavy

forming a dome blocking

any sunlight or set-

dismissive of our collective

need for it to drop &

soak into the ground;

somewhere, above it,

perfect fruit lies-

science or God

be damned, for 

the joy in the break

is my wish alone.

End of March

Windows cleaned

for spring

to shine

on through;

salmon pink

tiger striped

darkening sky

settled instead.

Quarantine

The window was opened for the cat to perch 

to get a sense of the young spring air; suddenly, 

flurries interrupted hope of a southern breath 

as they blew through to the warmer room like

phantom flakes - shimmery and iradescent

in all of their hundred hurries through the screen 

dissolving on sight leaving no trace of existence.

The room that had once sparkled grew dreary and dull;

the cat jumped off the window ledge and withdrew,

her tail up and march away indicative of what the delight’s

disappearance had meant for she and I who looked for 

respite from the quarantine that had caught us up inside:

hers as a feline drawn to March’s sudden bird song,

me, the threat of a bacteria let loose in my lungs.

I didn’t exit the room as quickly as the cat for hope

that a few errant snowflakes would still cross over

even though the outside cold burned through my throat

and I burrowed under a blanket to tame the chills.