with fragile wings; we always fall
but then we get up
and try again, somewhat singed
and just a trifle smarter. Growing is a painful thing;
every era has known its own pain. I am sitting at my ancient desk
gathering wild strawberries
into tin buckets. The memories
are bigger than my thumbs, but the poems
always seem to come out smaller. I wish you could have tasted that sweet summer
when all that bloomed was tousled by the wind. Through the curtains in my room,
I see that far off hillside. Wise men say
you can’t go home again, still
I wonder if those berries
would taste as sweet today as they did then.
change with the weather,
The urge to frolic
is tempered by experience
and the certain knowledge
that an icy sidewalk
is no place
into the air
like a confession
everything is solemn
even the opalescent crows
in this winter meadow
colors flash from their backs
from thrum to whisper
almost holy against the snow
the onset of incessant cawing
sends a shiver
through the frigid air
for a moment we tremble
like children in church
The beginning of December, Earth is wearing ermine.
Soon this gentle chill will be swallowed by a wind
whose whistle has turned to a roar.
Winter insists on the cynical.
This part of the planet is held prisoner, manacled
by ice. What alchemy would brutalize the lace
that dusted bareness to beauty? Only a bone crunching
cold without mercy.
The snowflake that danced so delicately mid air
has thudded to earth. The old paths are jagged
and aloof, but the sky is still blue;
the stars still shine at night.
Secluded by drifts of Winter entering, held captive
by the pallid vastness, memory conjures a dream.
The climate doesn’t seem quite as harsh
with your voice so unexpectedly close.