Showing posts from February, 2019
39. Winter

Softening the crust of frost,
a cover of down lies across.
Step on it, snap and crack.
Ditches cut the brittle land.

A carefully curved swan
balances on her white.
A stork stands vigil,
on a single red stalk.

In the distance foots fall,
high voices haul a sleigh,
muffled in duffels, and carry
in triumph their joy on the slide.

A veil of thaw on the pale
face of mist and drizzle.
Snow trickles into ice, and
long in tooth icicles drip.

In the park, squatting ducks cluster,
in reeds, barely a foot to stand on.
Heads tucked into their breast pocket,
listening to their hearts.  

38. On a camping one night
Awake before dawn, on a camping, one night,
in the shelter of trees,

on a patch of marsh, clasped between lakes,
in st. Fargeau.

The clang of a rope on a mast carries far,
a chapel’s chime.

A low green rustle, a shiver of wind.
Echo of ancient tribes,

huddled safe in communal squat, they sniff the musk
of rotting leaves.

Stare ahead to apprehend what they cannot grasp,
whether to fear or not.

Grasp at a flighty thought, which ever may dawn,
sink back in their dimness.

How much more than the cow, with its soft, stolid stare,
as it churns its cud?

How much less than us dullards with our dream
of brilliance and wit?