Late Winter's Midday Snow

There is no maneuvering in time
no rush to the front of the future
looming large in the next moment
or perhaps a dream of fright-less hope
or drifting backwards to gone days
as sweet or bitter as those might be.

Just now, the midday
with its great gray belly of clouds
Hung distended across the sky
wanting in their pregnancy to release
the water that they bear
and in the cold moment of urgency
let loose a deluge
of broad ragged flakes
which thrust down with great urgency,
a down pour
like a flooding river
fat flakes but without a swirl
and backed by pine or
budded branch
they fly headlong
across the wood.

Birds struggle bent-backed
as they cross the path
of falling flakes
in search of seeds soon
buried by this late winter's storm,
which for the moment
changes courses
from passive
to active
and runs the imagination
'round circles edge.

A Springtime Story and King of the Maples

A Springtime Story

Hidden and but subtly told
your springtime story does unfold,
A rare feat of pure alchemy
is there for those who care to see.

By eating seeds of whisker size
a transformation before the eyes,
Of feathers muted black and gray
turning gold a bit each day,
Then finally your true colors show
a feast of beauty for all to know.

****

King of the Maples

On some fine day soon
the sun will stream down
a wedge of light
thrust through the gray bellied clouds
and pour upon your golden shoulders
and crown you king of the maples
amidst the red bud regalia
where you sometimes hold court.

You do not fear to share yourself
among us commoners
and distribute your riches almost carelessly
but none the less generously
and by doing so
you sometimes save a soul or two.

For you have labored
in fields afar
and battled against the same hard foes
and in your soft mannered victory
you have truly turned to gold.