A Warm Day in January

In a slow game of hide and seek,
The wind, turned gentle breeze,
peeks its head into every crevice,
whispers along the river bank
and ruffles the boughs of pines
like a grandfather’s hand
ruffling his grandson’s hair.

Here, there, then gone so quietly
it is hard to believe it’s not a dream,
That playful wind must be part imp,
Warm as the noonday sun, it touches
the skin in a laughing caress,
then skitters along the garden hedge,
edging the boxwood with rippled stems,

and I, feeling wild as a new spring colt,
try to chase it down, but alas, I can
only see where it’s been
and by the time I get there it is gone.
As if making sure I won’t lose track,
it circles back and whispers,
“Catch me if you can.”

For the poets who ply their pen for peace

Gentle poet, purveyor of peace,
what sorrows slip unnoticed
by crass crowds; what thirst
thrives unquenched within your soul?
What dreams lie quietly but
will not die? Your page is dressed
with tranquil metaphor, with grandeur
of the bards of old,
while I, mere mortal with a love of word
drink of your wine as warrior
takes to sword, like seedling set
where soon a flower grows,
or a single drop of dew
seeks out its rose.

Moonbeams on Snow

No witness
to this waltzing with the moon.
The stars in heaven are quiet tonight,
sleep spangled in their eyes.

Snow swept the fields
with a natural rhythm
             not yet named,

just a gentle perfection
humming in God’s head
                 like Creation
    before He made man.