The Gale of Pressing Light

Winter softness

is punctuated by the wide green

of unrestrained hollies.  1-1-13

Dour is the little girl

sitting in the black metal chair

while Daddy wipes the bird poop

out of her hair.  1-1-13

Morning light raises

the air, the spirits

of those with eyes.  1-3-13

So much light this morning

it hides the windy

wood.  1-7-13

Between the cloud

and the sky, on the opalescent edge,

a rim of shimmering reality

moving through time.  1-7-13

Here it is—a strip of winter woodland.

No deer, no birds.

Only light and silent moving breath.  1-7-13

Day by day, darkness comes later,

as blue as dark silk held tight on the horizon,

lightened only by breath, our watery breath,

rising up.  1-8-13

The morning is the color of dead wood.

A squirrel runs through it

believing in more.  1-10-13

Moistened by last night’s rain,

winter orange leaves

give off warmth.  1-12-13

Patient eyes look for something

in the timeless morning.

Here and there hollies, pyracantha,

self-absorbed in green.  1-12-13

The soft fog lays itself

down on us, eases

winter pain.  1-15-13

Five cups of millet and black sunflower seeds

tossed out the kitchen window.  Look!

I have friends, all with tails.

All kinds of tails.  1-15-13

Up the maple

squirrel runs, his frayed tail

the same color as the winter morning fog.  1-15-13

Here and there

a drop of rain

resumes its fall.  1-15-13

On the sidewalk

four turkey buzzards eat

the dead squirrel, shaggy black feathers

widely weighted under narrow clean heads.  1-16-13

The sun!

Inkberry is tingling

in the breeze.  1-18-13

The all-day deer

ate all the partridgeberry.

Maybe not the roots.

I hope not the roots.  1-19-13

Rising,

the morning fog light

arrives first.  1-21-13

Streaming through the

slatted blinds, a windless light fall.

Birds look for seed under dark leaves.  1-22-13

Holding to red and green

bitterwort stays tall

on the bare winter ground.  1-23-13

The inside of cold is dark.

Pine needles hang straight down.

The light points down with them.  1-23-13

More light from the ground

than from the sky.  It holds my footprints

while I breathe.  1-25-13

Looking for balance

in the light

in the dark.

Beauty’s form of purpose,

a weighted purpose,

turning.  1-25-13

Cranky.

The awful sound the

snow shovel makes.  1-26-13

Under the Venetian blinds

trying to internalize

the luminous sky.  1-26-13

A day of spring—

a slivered message from the future

inserted between ice and ice.  1-29-13

The wind moves last summer’s last leaves,

the moon-like sun above.  1-30-12

Climbing the stairs on fingertips,

putting the dust in order,

a view of scattered light,

the one breath taken.  1-31-13

The wind just here—

the big noise

and flickering lights,

hollies’ cold lights.  1-31-13

Waiting for the light to lift.

waiting for color—

the color that doesn’t move

in the gale of pressing light.  1-31-13