lowly elevation

all day listening to the wind in the pines

pair of redtails turned above the spire

snow withdrew from fields

waiting for bluebirds in vain

instead i saw the worms emerge

no less privileged

Goal Oriented

i went to town and i came back

placed the cartons on the shelves

checked the money in the bank, egad,

fed the dog and fed myself

and left the house again

determined i would live another day

modestly the dog and me

to watch the disappearance of our tracks

from field and woods

 and following her lead, do what Rosie does:

lift my head and breathe the wind and fill myself

with the rich sensations of the present.

Amble into Everything

Each step a collapse

half a foot of wet sugar

over a two inch crust

over half a foot of shaved ice

keep moving

one foot in front of the other

keep the ball spinning

the dirty snow passing under you

you staying in one place

there behind your eyes

riding your mechanics

a beast on a ball in a circus

your arcs and short circuits

moving your components

in a rhythmic whir and thump

one foot in front of the other

the planet turning under

you riding into is.

March Unplugged

Disconnected from the world

A universe in yard and field


Wobble of the open water

Creaking of elastic ice


A subtle change from yesterday

Testing the periphery.

Sugar Water

North wind across the snowpack

Marrow-chilling maple season

Late this year but soon enough

My fingers ache where long ago

I pushed a wire through numb flesh

Clearing ice from the elder spile

And hard against the bone.

Forty years––

 Some injuries will never heal.

That one barely qualifies.

Warriors

Ft. Myers, Florida. Click to expand.

You sense their strength when they run past

uniformed and kicking up the dirt,

and something primitive as well,

painted clubs in hand,

bearded warriors in their prime

bent on striking hard with speed

and wild for triumph.

Call it sport, this honing of the skills

to feed the tribe, to win the war,

a civilized ferocity.

Even as the Feckless Sun

Even as the feckless sun

drops behind us and our shadows

stretch to the eastern horizon,

we feel the dark pour in,

we feel the cold come down,

winter rising up to stand

towering above us

into the clear black night,

sharpening the stars.

The dark presses on us from above,

our own weight presses down

against the frozen ground,

we are all out in the cold,

we are all so far from home.

—with lines from "The Visible and the Invisible," an essay by Howard Tharshing.

Cabin

there's a place where i go

to consider the might-have-been

the one towering change

the other life that might-have-been-had

a place where i go

flame in the stove and snow floating down

to appreciate anew

this living memory as art

the might-not-have-been-had

—with two lines from a letter by Robert Lowell to Elizabeth Bishop

Treeline

Please expand by clicking.

The old guard at the edge of the path

Where the woods opens up to the field

Under the shadow of windless snowfall

A gray dusk in the heart of the day

Finding peace in the comfort of age

As much permanence as we are likely to know.

to begin again

this morning in the calls of birds

i heard the season change

though the air is restless and the day

feels more like a suspension than an end

or a beginning

a walk on old collapsing drifts

discourages -- snowshoes still are needed in the fields

but we've come this far and won't give up

so long as we have firewood under roof

and strength tomorrow.