It’s a cold grey sky,
wintry overhead,
a rowdy autumn wind
has left me just a shred,
so what do I do
without my coat of red?
I hold out all my arms
and wear some birds instead.
Category Archives: Winter
July 12.20: Coping
My muse! Impertinent,
wayward thing!
Taunting me
on mighty wing!
Graceful she,
in bluest height,
indifferent
as I try to write.
I watch her float,
from earth unbound,
while I, like stone,
am stuck to ground.
In those clouds
vocabulary,
eloquence
extraordinary.
She could bring it
to cloddish me,
but prefers to soar
metaphorically.
March 4.20
Salad days
judgment green
wings untested
life unseen
soaring spirits
buoyant dreams
endless visions
plans and schemes
ideals of beauty
reason, truth
halo’d by snow
but more by youth.
Apologies (and thanks) to Shakespeare.
Thanks also to Wabash College for use of this photo,
and to S.W. Berg for sending it.
February 28.20
Night light
wind with bite
bitter air
mocking chair
message clear:
don’t sit here.
February 27.20
Poor little pansy!
It tried very hard
to bring some springtime
into the yard.
Unabashedly sunny,
its bright shiny face
promised big change
with diminutive grace.
I’d rail at the winter
my dander bestirred,
but I know that the pansies
will have the last word.
Thanks yet again to photographer S.W. Berg.
February 26.20
I love graphite;
I love to draw.
Nature’s pencil
fills me with awe.
I am undecided, dear reader. Is this late winter snow a sign that Nature is cruel or kind? Indiana is at its worst now: gloppy, cold, colorless, dark. We are starved for light and color. We want watercolor but Nature gives us graphite, and, darn it, it’s beautiful.
February 17.20
The bud inspector
isn’t sure
how long these leaflings
will endure;
a phony spring
bamboozled them
to pop up from
their cozy stem.
He shakes his head
and fears the worst,
spreads his wings
to lift, but first
he chirps a tsk,
consults an app,
and tucks his iphone
under his cap.
February 16.20
White insists
that every crook
splintered furl
bashful nook
shriveled curl
be seen.
February 13.20
Sunrise in the kitchen
its gold eye warm
through blue-white froth
of last night’s storm
rousing the patter
of wiggly-toed feet
noses to windows
day’s quickened heartbeat.
February 6.20
The ice of contempt
word-borne
(or not)
cuts
like sleet shard/
snuffs thought
in tight cocoon/
enshrouds
the limp remains
of reason/
thriving in cold dark
whimpering wetly
in warm light/
rhinestoned
glittering
hard.
