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.
Morning daydreams chase the falling snow
in swirls of good intentions and solid ambitions–
with a sprinkling of old books, soft music and
cups of hot, honeyed tea, I settle down to
work with the pup at my feet.
Thoughts in winter stumble with
a stop-action rhythm
both jarring and comforting.
With hard edges and delicate skeletons,
they push to the forefront of consciousness;
greedy, needy and completely camouflaged
in the light of the cold January sky.
not for skiing
or for shoveling,
not for driving
or for boarding,
but for dreaming
and for steaming
and napping deeply
on sycamore roots–
for kissing long lashes
and drifting softly
as crystal ashes