The winter skies are drifting slowly in,
and soon the snow will begin to amass —
the powder settling so scant and thin,
accruing between blades of withered grass.
How many times will skies sputter, thusly
without it piling up or drifting deep?
Just coating soil like the world went dusty —
not snow one shovels but the kind one sweeps.
A child’s and an adult’s prayers differ.
While grown-ups are content to prolong Fall,
kids wish that winter will get here quicker —
but all wish Christmas snow will come to call.
“And when will snow liven our bleak doorstep?”
A question I once asked, but now forget.
a winter moon
is seen clearly between
breath fog plumes
through the tent flap,
herald cold’s bite
cold slinks in
once sleep has taken hold,
settling in bone
winter midnight —
sunlight, a distant memory,
or so it feels
how bright the moon
in the mid-winter sky —
yet, no heat
all the world stands still, or
sounds and signs of life
a blank slate
the breeze dies
then the snow fall ceases
tell of a man and a dog
an old church
the surrounding snow
a crow caws
standing on a stout post
black eye watching
a child wonders,
beyond this rainy valley,
is it white?
but mushrooms sprout
wet forest floor
lonely bus stop
one man waits for a nearly
streaks of blue
viewed through cloudy skies
a bird hops
slice down from the north
so bone cold
damp air sinks
hangs as a cloak of cold
viewed through tent flap crescent
each moment, a moment lived
satori by ice
the skater’s frisson
Stalk-stubbled field dusted white.
Four in the afternoon,
yet drifting into night.
How’s dark descend so soon?
Visible breath eddies
from lips dry and cracked.
Shoulders shrugged up ready —
cold collar cataract.
Light of low sun passes
through the barren hardwoods.
Moving like molasses,
people wear all their soft goods.
glows in the moonlight
smoke, a farm nearby?
morning light will pass through
a roadside silhouette
cloud & moon
paint different homesteads
from same scene
pent-up through a maddening winter
crated winter vegetables
in pantry and cellar,
staples in barrels
amber light filters through the trees
three hours either side of mid-day
a deer, nose down,
roots for nourishment
in the leaf litter between snow pack
the line between blissful solitude
and mania is thin and ghostly
I know you best by the gray of your winters
when road salt coats the sidewalks
and a witch of wind rides down the Danube
whistling around pedestrians on your broad bridges
— except there are no pedestrians
— save for me —
river crossers huddle in yellow trams
or pack into the Metro that rolls under the river
I know your beauty can be unsullied
I’ve seen a Budapest in bloom,
under blue skies and cotton clouds
But your gray days lend a distinguished air
a melancholic miracle is birthed from gloom
a sweep of story,
a piece of poetry,
that would move a stoic to tears
And escape is always close at hand
for Kürtőskalács fires sunshine in my mind