Spattering of snow
on dead grass and the lawn chairs-
winter's soft goodbye.

Winter has returned
with racing clouds and dark skies,
like a goth boyfriend.

A dark morning sky
with the promise of lightning
on blue-black canvass.

The sun on my face,
the breeze blowing through my hair-
good to be alive.

Awake in the dark
listening to the raindrops
falling on dead grass.

Amputated trees
fractured bodies swaying
like armless giants.

Black hawk cuts the sky
contrasting with blueness of
late winter silence.

Highway gleams ahead
winter's landscape flashes by
sun is at my back.

Three cats sun themselves
waiting for the promise of
warmth out of season.

The sky is hard blue;
sunshine licked the clouds away
leaving only cold.

Naked branches sing
as wind whistles through them with
solomn emptiness.

The violent blue sky
mingles with the outer gray-
something like a bruise.

Scraping car windows
of morning's sparkling, soft frost
wakes me up nicely.

The still winter world
is broken by rain showers
and beaded motion.

Bradbury's Venus-
a dreamed place with constant rains;
sounds alright to me.

Oh late winter blooms
careful when you show your green-
frost is not done yet.

Alone in warm rain,
I am reminded of things
that catch in my throat.

The rains have come now
bringing concussive showers-
that wrap me in sound.

The rain has stopped now-
and I miss the sound of water
with its small, soft hands.

The frantic bird flight
and dark promise of rain storms
taste of spring's violence.

The ice storm has left
the monuments of branches-
tributes to damage.

It's been gray all day-
a cloak of oppression that
is almost comfort.

Thick clouds moving fast
race me along to something
that could likely wait.

Solitude is like weight-
sometimes like a blanket and
sometimes like anvils.

One forlorn cardinal
hops among the felled branches
gingerly pecking.

If the trees could cry
surly the sounds of weeping
would be deafening.

The afternoon light
filtered through the leafless, bare trees
fills me with longing.

The sun has returned
and quiet desolation
is at least well lit.

The moon is winking
like the eye of a woman
that has been punched black.