Running Ahead of the Avalanche

For Gary

We can decide
That there is nothing to be done.
It is too late.

My friend, though,
Sprints into the terrible and rich
Unknown. 

It is the end, and we
Know this, but he
Engages and survives; meanwhile
I park my angst
Because there is nothing I can
Do, and now, the smallest steps,
The smallest sighs,
The smallest promises
Are as big as the world we are
About to lose
And so, for him, I do not stop.

The Rubicon of Inertia

Thinking through some trouble tonight

I thought, you’ve lost your wildness, sister,

You stopped there at the

Edge, and let yourself dwell in some

Universe not of your own making.

Gradually, as the constellations

Appear the way they’re supposed to,

I think to myself, well then, cross the river.

Shifting

It's pretty dark,

Still some light in the west;

I see the Evening Star,

A satellite maybe,

A couple of planes going into the 

City. I see the Dipper arriving, 

Which one I'm not sure.

I welcome the constancy of land and 

Sky, and my knowing.

Having such a terrible time, though.

I do not like the years.

Fine and More

A tentative moon

Shines weak insights onto

Still-bare branches of the 

Linden tree.

In the glance at

Newness, I see some limbs

Are stripped bare of bark.

It had to be

More than the hard winter;

Rather life reveals itself 

In unexpected ways:

Who knew the near-bone

White of the old tree's

Branches

Could be less death,

And really 

Not even life,

But just the quiet, waiting prompt

To notice, 

No assumptions, save that 

Life is brief.

Fighting Spring

Comes now

The Taurus month, 

Trying to bulldoze into spring

Heads down, we face

A tough transitional season.

Outside winter hangs on,

Petulant; spitting snow often enough

Each day to summon mayhem,

Internal chaos, deep discontent; 

We are forced to count on 

The elusive sanity of change.

Still, there is a seminal lesson

In this awful stretch of recalcitrant days:

Just put your head down.

Stop already with the

Dream of blossom,

Tug of scented sultry sky,

Respite beckoning in sunset lining,

Certainty of some sufficient

All-is-well that we just 

Can't yet find, because 

It isn't there.

So the Bull steps in,  

Blazing blind ambition

In the ring,

The reasons, handicaps, 

And obstacles no match

For the distance of simple 

Detach; wait, it's coming.

Passion finally stomps into survival,

Sing loud, bellow, scorch heaven,

Trumpet reason, logic,

It is April; 

Season will arrive.  

Meanwhile we listen 

To the birds, we

Search the trees for

Scrim of green, we are

Just getting by until this obstinance 

Gives in, and settles 

Into spring. 

Sunday Evening

In the old childhood days

Home was always filled 

With music, every room,

He even put speakers in the

Greenhouse he built 

For our mother

To help her through

Long Nebraska winters.

Now, the snowing early
Spring fights the season

And I dream of my gardens

While the rest of the world 

Tills, preps, and readies for 

The growing, but 

My house is filled 

With music. 

Fox

Sorting through tinnitus,

I heard the fox tonight.

Last deep time I knew 

She was here, 

She red on blind snow

Hauled herself through drifts;

I know she was headed for 

The den under

The threshing floor,

I think two years ago.

Maybe there were kits,

I never knew, and

Maybe now

Rebalancing.

Although I'm not sure how, 

Spring is coming out there.