Not here and not now
yet some winter road tells a story
of the shortest day
the longest night
This snow a simple driftless dusting
it sits lightly upon the trees
waiting quietly for new leaves
buds tight and shiny
for now bare branches where crows alight
All who do not flee for warmer places
light the flames
hands made warm by winter grogs in hefty cups
hearts gladdened by what is here
by what has passed
Here is the solstice
there will be more light tomorrow
The cold of winter is mysterious like cat whiskers
here the ground frozen into granite
there soft pliant fluffy soil as it it had spent the night in a sauna
One morning ice points have formed where water tumbles
another just as cold only the roof tops show the white signs of freeze
My shovel point is not a spear
it only scratches the ground
where the tree intends to throw out roots
now enclosed in the nursery plastic pot
red and green coral bells had lain down
seeming too injured to rise again
yet there they are poking their fine forms out and about intrepid as morning ski patrol in the frigid icy air
The plant I least understand the curry plant
lacy leaves delicate lightest abalone blue
a pair of tiny yellow flowers clinging yet
constant as lichen but soft
gentle as sparrow’s breath
between the pomegranate and armillary
Comes now the white bird
amidst a flock of grey doves
he watches as I set his seed near the pond
then saunters across the garden
remembering where two days back
the bird feeder fell to the ground
