you flow like the river through my outstretched hands; I would not catch you if I could
snow up to his 8-year-old waist; he dives in and swims
Santa still on window, plastic chair in snow; some things never get gotten to.
the cold of a grave claws at my boots
where black bear sleeps
the earth breathes dreams
dank and wistful
a dark moon calls
one glaucous gull
to sing winter.
wind cry, snow whine
tired and toneless winter tune
waiting for the pitch-pipe sun
and the soft direction
of a distant child
After sitting and obsessively writing for three hours, I cannot fall asleep. Why is it that I only get creative after dark?
I put a cake in the oven, set the timer, and went to search through my poetry for something to submit. The cake is overdone. Much of my poetry is, as well.
a shadow on the stairs
where there should be none
— a black cat asleep
From a small mound of snow emerges the head of a squirrel, who seems to take a breath and then disappear. Above the mound hangs what’s left of a bird feeder that the squirrel had demolished before the snows. Up and down, he pops and plops, delighting in the fact that the birds can’t get at his stash.