Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Late Winter

The storm covers the willow buds
And crocus blossoms
With its churlish chill.
The first flakes in their solo dances
All lace and frozen spindrift
Late of the Atlantic
Are now accumulating,
Bending boughs
Marching madly
In great unison chorus lines,
Dampening the hope of an early spring and
Forwarding for another day
This wanton winter swell
And the story of such days
Somewhere in between.

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

Is?


Is that all there is to a nor'easter?

Or should I just look out the window

   and smile?

As for this while

There is a sky, dirty-wet-white

Crossing the heavens low

From shoulder to shoulder

And trees, aplenty

Wait-watching in moldering puddle of leaves.

The squirrels, my new neighbors

Are hanging off the bird feeder

By tenuous toenails

Great grey pendulums

They are tracking the morning's moments

Seed by seed

And nothing more shall willfully come

Of any of this

Except for the waiting and watching.