While Snowflakes Fly

With its eye on the earth
nothing is still
in a snowstorm

I am of a single mind
Six sided things
seem intricate

Snowflakes swirl as if in recital
Each one knows its own routine

More than pomp and circumstance
This storm is serious
as if all the particles of ice have united
to paint the world white

It is not a case of choice
So much for the metaphysical lore

A blizzard can be brutal
For the strong
there is calm after the storm

A hawk and a sparrow
make shadows on the snow
We can only pray
the sparrow is faster

What were you looking for
Sparrow, that put you
in such a precarious place?

There is suet in the local shrubs
Safety in the branches
Did you think the hawk
would come and take it from you?

Did you believe the treat
would feed future generations?
What is your excuse
for risking death
to soar?

Snowstorms sometimes do that
They fill your head with dreams
and incredible rhythms
and the music of the snowflakes
gets beneath your wings

But now you know
the air is thin up there
where snowflakes are born

Birdsong echoes
in the upper reaches
of the atmosphere
It becomes a feral cry

Snow falls over all of us
It is the great equalizer
For the moment the storm is over
and everything is beautiful
but December
is upon us

The river is frozen
and there is ice in the air

Winter has just begun
Snow clouds are gathering
Sweep the drift from the stadium
Build a bonfire, an igloo
a snow man, anything
to see us to spring

A Gift to Open on a Cold December Night

May this gift warm when winter’s breath blows cold:
The classic knot clasped ’round a single bloom
wears glitter from the night sky’s fiery show.
The sparkling stars conspired to ease all gloom,

then soft the night wind sealed it with a sigh.
A pine bough gave a final tender tap
as moonbeams from heaven’s gate did fly
to burnish gold the simple homespun wrap.

This package small I send to you with love;
it’s bathed in rainbows of a dewdrop’s tear
and borne on velvet palm of morning’s glove
into the gentle hush of dawn’s sweet air.

Beneath this rosebud’s bloom there is no thorn,
These gathered dreams, a gift to keep you warm.

 

Illegal Separation

The misty breath of winter
sets snowclouds blossoming
into Rorshach imaginings,

Bordered and framed,
all circuits shorted,
everything is connected

to that distant point
we can not see,
hobos that we are

in the world of understanding
this earth, not to mention
the troposphere

where cirrus are born
and, apparently
where your mind roams

when 
I speak to you
of lowlier concerns.

Fair November

One could be blinded
                    looking for light.
I am awed by life and football,
confused at best; the plays
amaze me.

The wind blows warm,
                    the wind blows cold,
One day it keeps the kite aloft;
a child’s curls gleam in the sun
as he runs with the string.

Who knew so soon
                    he’d get caught up
in the storm? The kite
becomes irrelevant.  So, too,
the sun. It’s gone.

Someone should insist
that life state its intentions
at the beginning.  Honesty
like November’s would be welcome.
Gray days

indicate December’s near,
                     No need for despair,
there’s plenty of time to grab a blanket
and hunker down for the winter.
At least November plays fair.