Skip to content Skip to navigation


Bold snowman stands

with anthracite button,

scarf, hat, and carrot nose


with stern, wan smile

as he sinks to ground

like parboiled politicians

of immemorial past.


As snow accumulates,

birds peck at feeder,

chatter and sing

of elemental joy


offered by

each wandering flake

dithering in its fall.

Blizzard-bound in white:

there’s ecstasy in wind-force,

sudden melting mote in eye,

nose pinched red by cold,


mourning dove fluttering,

snow-laden fir branches

slowly swaying in swollen gust,

wind-whirling power outages,


icy flakes sharp as slate

dangerously accumulate

as I heft another shovel

from fluff-born groundswell….

Oh, those old mysteries of lost childhood:

icebox, ice pic with shards glinting in sun,

gray cloudy days with rain dripping from eaves,

the blossoms of an apple tree in spring.

Poetry breathed in childhood at spry three

beside brilliant awakening of language

where the sound of words became enchanting:

robin, sparrow, colander, fork, hammer.


At seventy, poetry is poignant,

burdened with rue and refulgent wisdom.

Snowflakes drifting desultory in wind

dance with unpredictable dalliance

while one is more aware of mortal clay

with each rousing dawn of cloudy day.

One travels to leave behind

the certainty of boredom,

only to find unfamiliarity

in landscape, people,

customs, and common sense.


One cheerfully returns home

to discover a familiar bed,

memories ticking in objects,

the certainty of thought,

pleasure of sustained routine.


They say travel broadens the mind

and that is certainly so.

People should see how others live,

take up a second language,

discover delightful food.


Some prescribe dreams

for exciting, surreal travel,

yet I’ve never found

such to make much sense,

although it is economical.


Ten mile auto travel in hills,

I’ve always found refreshing,

or even walking up hills,

or loitering on hillside deck.

Reading remains good traveling.

Six inches of fluffy snow

loafing on fence, walk, and roof.

Imprisoned by white,

I’m fixated by birds:

for once they are serious,

not fighting or squabbling,

there’s no time for any of that.

They peck and fly with the prize.


My prize is the woodstove:

I feed it with spilt logs,

watch its embers glow

and in that solemn glow

I’m content as a bird feeder

waiting for the next bird.


Without such sedentary patience,

one lives a hectic life,

wherein one doesn't’t know

if one is a bird at the feeder,

or someone who lives in the glow

of embers winking

and pipes clinking

to philosophic thoughts

on flitting seasonal tribulations

and compensating spring joys

when snowdrop flowers appear.