Snow

I give up thinking too much

Cold moon, beautiful half-

Moon hanging there, serene

In the western sky

Light shines into the bedroom window

And all around is

The night sky

No end,

This world without end.

Upon occasion I see

A satellite, 

An aircraft far somewhere 

In the gift of this 

Night sky

Such a fine landscape,

This sky prairie

Helping me remember

And figure out my 

Old, familiar navigation

Homing instinct, I guess.

Garden Sky

Cold outside and in,

The old house

Cracking in the frigid night,

And icy spears breach 

The sagging window 

Sashes as the wind blows 

Steady across

The winter palate

Shaped by absence:

Gone the green

And florid flourish

Rioting from the ground,

But oh the sky

At daylight's end,

Unobscured by those 

Other seasons' wealth,

Is lavish in its splendor.

Minus Zero

You there?

The arctic night is still,

The great dome of heaven 

Erasing boundary, fear.

Not that I have suddenly become

brave.

I think I know

What the road signs say.

My fingertips are so cold,

Icy in the drafts of the old place,

My toes are cold.

I pile another quilt on the bed

And think about it all.

There is a light faint on the

Horizon as I look from

The bedroom window; 

Bereft, you are not here.

Releasing the winged,

Earlier than is the normal rhythm

The homing pigeons fly,

Roosting as necessary,

And these other worlds arrive. 

They thrive.

As I watch, an unlit,

Landscape sprinkles

In the dark to

White upon the rooftops, and 

The stars begin to shine.

What splendor the waiting world.

What new worlds are simply spinning 

here. 

Maybe they are between the now,

The was, will be.

Among the layered passages in life's 

Book, the ones there in this 

Something that stays with me,

I'll remember 

There aren't necessarily words

To use as markers.

I think the feelings are lovely.
So fine, how the river flows, how 

The springtime comes

And I'll just keep on doing 

What I'm doing.

There's no urgency, just the 

Right-ruddered wheel 

Of love surrounding me

In this icy certainty, with

Its fire, the wholeness of

The center. 

Sleep comes,

Another night I do not wake

Except in dreams.

Turn

In a very young new year,

I ask for the gift of time. 

I have squandered it. 

There is no going back, 

But in the strangest way, 

My indulgences inform the going forward. 

The prayer, the supplication is,
I suppose, for the space and latitude to put 

The kaleidoscope, swirling stuff together in my head,
Into the shifting ground of being. 

It's a way of 

Slowing things down some, 

Connecting past,
And how it new arrives,
The language of it,
The sublime beauties of it,
The rich chapters of what
I barely knew
Until now, of it. 

In my mind's eye,
A veil lifts slightly
In this winter wind,
An understanding of something
Hard to describe appears,
Though I believe
It's shared, and I'd
Like to think that in this
Mystery, it's love that's
Shared, and

I let the details roll. 

I mean to stand, I guess. 

Stand back a bit;

Stand up, explore these insight
Gifts, and be vibrant in the
Blooming passage.