Waiting for Snow

Rather than pull the blinds

to shut the frozen front out

I sit. Waiting. For first flakes.

Moving to the kitchen 

busying the knife with chop

Onions. Garlic. Spice.

Out the window, birds fly

to evergreen perch 

as the first snow finally falls.

Snow suspends time and 

blankets faded summer growths

in winter’s warmth.

Quiet stills street sounds as

traffic moves to busier streets

before the snow plows. 

Glad to be in flannel still

I hide behind heavy clouds

like winter’s first full moon.

The Day in Cinquain


to meet the day

so still the hour at hand

alarms will soon expect response


At work

minutes slow dance

around a floor of clocks

in slow repeat across the dial

of time


venetian blinds

allow filtered sunlight

shadows scatter across the floor


At home

unlaced unwound

not bound by rule nor hour

some shoulds get lost in folly thought


Still dusk

salmon colored

clouds skim across tree lines

cicadas warble lonely cries

for night


day dreams turn dark

subconscious mind awash

with scenes unforgetting of past

lost time

Prayer that the Cake Rises

The cake has risen: 

the toothpick comes clean when inserted in the center;

The cake has risen: 

time and temperature cooperated in the experiment;

The cake has risen:

the baker, more so the celebrant, will rejoice;

The cake has risen: 

the icing will not have to fill the crater left from a fall;

The cake has risen indeed in the oven, one of a handful to do so successfully.

Glorious beauty beheld with the perfectly formed round,

Glory to the baker, whose measure proved precise.


It pulled out of the ground easily

the root had not taken hold of the soil

with its connection to sustenance interrupted;

rigor mortis was beginning to set

as branches gray and brittle

had not thrived from the interference.

The tree was a donor’s gift 

that she planted for no particular reason

in a flower patch next to the garage.

Never mind that it would grow tall

and its roots would crowd under 

the siding and, likely, the cement floor;

but it didn’t whither and with attention

began to look alive and carry on

with living season to season.

She moved forward, not taller,

counting out twenty two pills daily

to feed roots and thwart disease.

But then something changed, she

dropped needles and leaned to hold

on to an upright position.

Over a winter, wind chill

when growing things are silent 

balancing on a dark edge

she left easily, not tethered to

the Earth as others, in fear, do

not alive, but always ever green.

Pink Moon

Night sky opened 
and poured out
the water necessary
for flowers to bloom
as they are apt
to begin in April.

But it rained,
the brightest moon
sulked above clouds
shining no pink,
but pulling it out
of the buds
ready to show.


The birds, yes, lovely songs
for long walks along deserted streets
in Spring when they populate trees
and nestled into evergreens to 
build summer homes. Even the 
cat’s ears pick up and her tail fluffs
to the droning chirp that is constant.

But on this walk, wanton along a road
without sidewalk, gray Nissans and 
Ford pick-up trucks unaware that 
feet hug the line that is painted to
indicate a shoulder, not much really,
that keeps me in line on the route.

The birds, yes the birds, sing, but
I cannot see them, so I look for
something else to savor.
Staring down at my feet so that 
I don’t trip on bubbles of ashphalt,
the road is littered with shards 
of metal and glass carelessly thrown
from the cars that move too fast along.

Shards of glass I have seen before,
not by accident or torn from steel,
in portrait depicting a story from a mind
not quite like the others on the block
hung in a museum of others who
envisioned the shards of their mind
and unusual materials to create
something whole, purposed.

Oh the birds, yes, I hear them,
but I will look for guidance in the litter,
find patterns in pieces of broken
glass and strips of torn rims and plates
to make sense of the shards of thought 
that scatter mosaicly in my thoughts
as the season changes from frost to song.


Over ripe, hung low
from heaven’s branches, 
I suppose-
or the sky for those 
who believe in science
and have lost faith in an
exalted power;

but to the clouds,
hung heavy
forming a dome blocking
any sunlight or set-
dismissive of our collective
need for it to drop &
soak into the ground;

somewhere, above it,
perfect fruit lies-
science or God
be damned, for 
the joy in the break
is my wish alone.

End of March

Windows cleaned
for spring
to shine
on through;

salmon pink
tiger striped
darkening sky
settled instead.


The window was opened for the cat to perch 
to get a sense of the young spring air; suddenly, 
flurries interrupted hope of a southern breath 
as they blew through to the warmer room like
phantom flakes - shimmery and iradescent
in all of their hundred hurries through the screen 
dissolving on sight leaving no trace of existence.

The room that had once sparkled grew dreary and dull;
the cat jumped off the window ledge and withdrew,
her tail up and march away indicative of what the delight’s
disappearance had meant for she and I who looked for 
respite from the quarantine that had caught us up inside:
hers as a feline drawn to March’s sudden bird song,
me, the threat of a bacteria let loose in my lungs.

I didn’t exit the room as quickly as the cat for hope
that a few errant snowflakes would still cross over
even though the outside cold burned through my throat
and I burrowed under a blanket to tame the chills.