driving along thick ice and tamped down snow,
passing horses and a stray grey cat,
i slow down at an expanse of farmland,
roll my window down, as the music hums softly in the background,
and take a big, cold breath of a Pennsylvania morning in February
winter whispers his name,
and he does not fail to answer
Where do the snowflakes go
when the wind dies down
and the days warm up?
Sleep well little snowflakes.
Reaching and resilient,
you stand your ground
while carrying a cold weight
and bearing a heavy burden.
I walked in the snow with the pup at my side.
Running my hand across the gate impulsively,
I licked the snow on my knitted mitten–
surprised to recognize the distinctive
yarny taste of winter.
I wish for the strength of the pine boughs.
That moment on a frigid day
when February’s sun stretches–
touching the drifting snows
and the running river waters
with an embrace of a long-lost friend.
earlier sunrise
bunny tracks in the snow
a robin in the maple tree
the sweet taste of mandarins
gulls on the river
Your tiny tracks
play hide and seek with the winter wind.
They appear before my own prints
and are swept away from behind, made invisible.
I wonder at the significance of this–
Picking you up, I climb the
steep steps slowly one by one.
This monochromatic scene stares at me
for weeks on end in the deep winter.
And although I find it beautiful and serene,
what I wouldn’t do to see a ruby red poppy
jutting out defiantly from the snows.
spanishwoods 