The ice has melted
and night falls blanketing the
wreckage of the storm.

The cracking bullets
of melting ice crashing down
seems more than water.

I write by candles
now power, trees crashing down
feels like World War II.

The vague blue-black light
illuminates the glossy
branches as they crash.

A wasteland of ice-
trees lay splinterd in the street;
shattered, gleaming bones.

A varnish of ice
bows brittle branches down in
silent submission.

A hard, blue-gray sky
waits with icy impatience
for something to fall.

Cold wind rattles leaves
so thin and papery brown
like an old man's skin.

That things will change is
is a certainty that is
beyond my control.

A soggy wind blows
with the promise of something
more than just rainshowers.

Each day it seems
I am bewitched by sunrise
and winter's silence.

Thin, crisp curve of moon
where pink dawn kisses blue night
among bare tree arms.

The birds are hungry-
frantically pecking at straw.
I must put out seed.

Sometimes days whirl by
caught in a bright eddy
of rushing moments.

Something beautiful
about 7am Sunday-
alone with the birds.

The hard, blue sky
has faded into soft pink
bringing with it calm.

Bone rattling cold
has stopped all motion, all sound
leaving bleak silence.

The bright sunshine warms
my little dog who races
his devious tail.

Ah, hibernation
sounds good to me this morning
lying warm in bed.

Sunday and make-ups

I am enjoying
the still life ouside my house-
How long till it moves?

The beautiful bones
of the lovely naked trees
are winter'g best gift.

my thoughts are clearer
among the leafless landscape
free from green clutter

my lungs fill with the
beaufiful, stinging berathes of
a chilled air so light!

the trance-like forest
is lost in a barren thrall
half asleep in ice.

a fat squirrel races
up a leafless branch rushing
to out run cold rain.

The air smells like ice
with a cold that cuts my bones
and burns breath like fire.

Winter is the time
to bask in the solitude
of bare, clean quiet.

The air feels thinner
in the wintertime somehow-
like shards of spun glass

Birds fly overhead
soaring to keep from freezing
to the lonesome ground.

Gray has decended
from the low, comforting folds
of winter's blanket.

The screams of children
signal they are having fun,
but still sound scary.

Winter has returned-
the leaves rattle with the cold
and I want a fire.

A patch of relief-
unseasonable warmth,
brings the lie of spring.

The female cardnal
searches my dead yard for food;
the male suns himself.

Breathing stinging air
into my tired body;
in no mood to write.