winter forest; the dead silence makes itself known as a vague feeling of untethered angst
snow accrues on a marble headstone - silently
The river glides like a glassy sheet. It seems to steam, but it's just fog forming over the frigid water that is nevertheless a reservoir of heat compared to the freezing air above. The fog erases the sharp edges that make the world seem real -- neither painting nor figment. The far shore is a brush-dabbed fiction... and I may be, also. The early morning cold affects my brain in the same manner that the fog influences the scene. river fog makes the cold morning a painted scene
The clouds hang gray this mid-winter day, while streets glisten with the watery sheen of rains that never break for long. Wheels roll through, throwing the water into a swish-slosh song. All seems clean, if perpetually dreary. The air looks clear, though some funk clings to one's shoulders as one walks through town, and every scent is compressed in intensity at street level. streets glisten, the city slick from rains that linger
The forest is silent, and winter has painted the woods in earthen hues. Bare black loam is spottily strewn with beige to brown leaves -- dried to a curl and crunch that's almost crumbling. If any animals are moving, it's only at the eyes. There're no skittering feet, no frantic digging, no chirped warnings, and no explosive attempts to flee. Then, at the base of a downed log, there's a lively scene of vibrant green moss and tender, burnished-orange fungi caps. winter forest -- all seems dead or dormant, but one tender scene
-To slacken on the back of spastic release – lulled by discordant heartbeats,
while feeling that they — and all — are in perfect accord
-To drift into slumber with no urgency and to awaken noncommittally,
sinking ever deeper into mattress and mind
-To love the snow for its beauty
as much as for its lack of reach
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.
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