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
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
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
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,
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