Tag: Winter


Eight days into March
and the snow is falling
hard (harmless) like the
after encountering
it’s lost its teeth
Imposing in appearance
but incapable of creating
much chaos Winter has
abandoned his most
famous child
left to bleed out on
the mean streets of
approaching Spring

The Eagle and I

Driving to Sperryville today
to score more raw honey
for the pantry
wipers squeaking maddeningly
on this drear winter day
I met an eagle along the way
perched midway up a small
dead tree looking decidedly
not to be soaring high
through a clear blue sky
and for a moment we
were the same
He and I

Tuesday Morning

The willow oak is
still holding many
dead leaves
A grieving mother
to release
from her clutches
those lost children
whose winter has come
and in the background
Ustad Vilayat Khan’s
Raag Bhairavi alap
sings from his sitar
and I hear her tears
in each sweet meend


No Prediction

I saw a wooly worm today
Not the correct term
but that’s what they were
growing up
You know the ones
Orange and black
and the color
of their back
is some exact
portend of
the coming winter
He was mostly orange
Heading east
at least for a moment
then screeched to a halt
and turned north
Was he going back
for his overcoat?
He didn’t say
It’s better that way –
not knowing what may come

Rough Winter (Hand Lotion Blues)

The backs of my hands
have begun their
unhappy metamorphosis
First a coating of
fine grit sandpaper
that will soon bloom
into two sheets of
coarser grit that will
catch in my sweater sleeves
as my hand passes through and


not at all
this gift
from winter
and all the lotions
are greasy despite
the lines the
feed me

But they know
I need it

All hoping to be the one
that sees my money

Winter’s Child

How I love the cold air
as it caresses the bare
limbs of November’s
dormant arms
amid the caws
of distant
crows carried
carefully through
the bright crisp
rays of the brave
winter sun
by the
of its days
The spirits
are nearer
The veil
is thin
My path ahead
is clear again

Slapdash Soiree (or A Collection of Random Scribbles in One Act)

What do you do
with a funk when
it settles
on you
like funks do
and the world
is a rocket
racing away
It can’t wait
or so
the little man said
who runs through my head
starting fires
And already
the first heralds
of Fall are
in the trees
from the earth
in thin layers
while they hope
for a pardon
from Winter’s
Marshal October
who’s just now
rounding around
the mountains
on his way
to town
And all I’ve
never known
and left undone
is buried in
the ground
the sound
of hooves