In feeble imitation
we aspire
in manmade constellation
of bulb and wire
to capture stars
of eons sired.
From night’s black depth
atop vast spire
two hoary lights,
amused, admire.
Thanks yet again to photographer S. W. Berg for this beauty.
And happy birthday to Emily Dickinson!
Winter sketch
ice lines
hard and bright
crystal’d maple
catching
freezing
lamplight.
And so it starts, dear reader: winter comes on crackling ice feet, and it’s here this morning.
When brutalities of day
give way
to candlelight of moon
do we find ease
and breathe
stillness?
Or do we ask
is it mere mask
for predator
conspirator
and illness?
Those of us who try to write struggle to find words for the anguish. Maybe there are none.
Evening white
kin to the moon
snowy ember
Delphic rune.
Lingering
a reluctant sun
releases day
leaf by leaf
pensive
wondering
what night
is like.
Sound the alarm!
Rouse up from here to yond!
Emergency! Emergency!
The moon fell in the pond!
Noble fellows
from day adjourned
comfy socks
in rest well earned.
Our wordless thanks
from heartfelt throe:
the bedtime sigh
and wiggle of toe.
With more thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
