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.
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