Spring day in February
Hurt, ache, dispersed…and, now whisked away for just one day.
A particular release that no written word can negate.
The aroma of hope absorbed in cedar turns from scent to sound.
Magic in enjoying languid moments…
relishing in standing still with no chill, no longer a myth.
There is music in loving winter when it decides to go.
In the dark months, I attempt to realize not ‘everything is in my mind.’
In the light of now…when wind turns to breeze, my feet dare not touch the ground.
A fleeting thought as the sun goes down,
‘when the weather changes…never be the last to know.’
I ask, ‘what good is a word…wrapped in barbwire?‘
It is expression squeezed dry of color.
Cross-words lacking landscape…deprivation in an isolated world.
An imperfect storm in which memory is unfurled.
All this language bantered about with the hue of integrity bleeding out.
When will childhood become a Polaroid from the past?
Words, words, words, ugly…looking to get further down the road.
Not knowing where they were first planted.
How poetic is a provincial leaf?
Such as, a gentle morning’s kiss.
A brisk breeze will toss sheltering soldiers…to the ground.
Many are red, the rest are mostly, brown.
One by one by one they tumble.
A quilted tapestry erupts all around.
Such is the passing of a friend…
New life beginning.
As another season artfully ends.
“It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.” – Steinbeck
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.