Saturday, February 2, 2013

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

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

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

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