winter shadows reach beyond the woods towards forever
Long Shadows [Haiku]
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Tag Archives: winter
Graveyard Winter [Haiku]
A Silence Felt [Tanka]
winter forest; the dead silence makes itself known as a vague feeling of untethered angst
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DAILY PHOTO: Fog Enshrouded Fortifications, Sümeg
Graveyard [Haiku]
Painted World [Haibun]
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
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Wet Winter [Haibun]
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
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Life Amid a Winter Scene [Haibun]
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
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Three Snowy Haiku
I
snow white mountain
orange in the morning sun
gray under clouds
II
a southern cat
learns to move through the snow —
never to repeat
III
in the fresh snow
a single set of tracks
curve to the left
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POEM: The Ekstasis of a Warm Bed [in a Cold, Snowy Land]
-To watch powder cling to sill and muntin through the frosted panes,
but not be chilled by that crisp whiteness
-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
