In silvered regal posture
high-headedly aloof
it shimmers self-congratulatory
for my personal behoof.
Tag Archives: ice
Disconnections: November 20.18
When winter comes
even the drips stop
to heed
the inward time
iced
blackened by early night
when kitchen lights glow gold
and we face ourselves
reflected in dark windows.
Disconnections: November 15.18
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.
Connections: March 20.18
With buds of ice and baby leaves
the seasons wage their war
winter’s grip
in silvery drip
yields to seed and spore.
Happy freezing first day of spring, dear reader!
Connections: February 12.18
Icy visage
deck as mirror
transparent message:
winter’s still here.
Encased in numbing
frozen air
the world succumbs
to dark despair.
But wait! What errant
buoy is this?
What harbinger
of warming bliss?
Why does it glower
all grumpy of feather
as though I ordered
this lousy weather?
Yes, robins, dear reader! A red-breasted throng of them on the heels of freezing rain. And all frowning. What did they expect? Palm trees?
Musings on wildlife, continued: February 3.18
They announced themselves in Stravinsky-esque blats over my roof. I rushed to the back door, ready to defend my personal homeland.
And there they were, four monuments to stupidity, clearly dumbfounded and trying not to look embarrassed. It’s frozen, you stupid birds! So much for landing with a splash.
They stood still for several minutes, looking around warily. Did anyone see how stupid we are? When they were assured no one was looking, they settled down in concerted effort to melt the ice with the sheer weight of their foie gras. But it didn’t work, so off they waddled to the riches on shore, aka our back yards, desirous of making breakfast of those riches and of leaving their own riches.
And so did they eventually break through the ice and paddle near me with all deliberateness, eyeing the smorgasbord they thought I had prepared for them.
I have begun to take their brassiness personally. The nerve. Trespassing on my quiet and on my grass. The sound of the amateur French horn is such a match for their manners. I am quite sure at this point that they have their cold beady little eyes trained on me and my house, assessing my defenses.
New home: new world — yes, dear reader?
January 14.18
Silvery tree
twinklingly
boasts to me
of finery
slender-boned
all rhinestoned
befitting backyard glitterati.
