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
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.
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.
Watching Kathy Bates in “Harry’s Law.” Gray hair, a few extra pounds, well-dressed, feisty and female. It’s about time.
went out to romp in the snow. unfortunately, my age came with me.
When I took geometry in high school, I never thought I’d have any reason to remember the Pythagorean Therum or Algebra. More than 50 years later, I’m learning to do modular knitting and I have to figure out how many stitches to pick up along the hypotenuse of a knitted right triangle. But these days, even if I don’t know, Google knows.