February 1, 2010

 It was a calm day in the cold,

silence interrupted only by birds,

and little to think of but coming snow,

which began as the sun dropped

 to a smudge behind the clouds,

a falling circle of milky glow.

A few flakes flew and then showers,

the air filling with snow--

a world made new in white,

its hardened gray crust banished

under a covering of new light,

a flock of winter butterflies

tumbling down as the dark came on,

leaving ground aglow with stars.

February 7, 2011

Moving my woodpile,

I disturbed a mouse

who scurried to her burrow,

abandoning her pantry.

A riot of chickadees

crowded my feeders,

while a flock of waxwings,

a band of silent ghosts,

gathered on low branches

of the honeysuckles.

Soon, clouds began to part,

a line across the west opened,

and a slash of gold

woke up the gray.

February 13, 2014

As cardinals and chickadees,

those beings who ignore the cold,

begin to break the silence of winter;

and as the light has risen

half way through the sky

on its way to spring equilibrium,

these birds insist on celebration,

every note of mourning put aside.

They sing as if the sun’s journey

were complete.  And why rejoice less?

Any less, and you might doubt,

and this is no time for doubting;

for as any bird could tell you--

one glance, and you must do no less

than to sing the whole of it.