Wednesday, October 9, 2013


         Where Winter Is

December thirty-first we go to bed
at the usual hour. No paper hats, 
no horns
to toot at midnight. 
Others may claim a year ends
a year begins but it's just winter 
settling in.
The movable feasts that mark the cycle 
of our seasons are the night 
the pond freezes
          the day the ice goes out.
The gray cataract skim turns
fall to winter in one night.
Then the year ends.
The ice sheet softens like a wafer
soaked in wine
the pond opens like
a sleeper's eye. That day
the year begins.
In between
winter's more another place than another time.
No Julian or Gregorian reform
can patch the cycle here.
is its own world where roof ice 
grins at the moon with crystal teeth
shadows strike sun-bleached snow
as an archer's arrows.
wears winter out.

      Falstaff's Option  

The meadow mouse stood as tall as it could
on three of it's very short legs, stood it's ground, 
considering a blow to our cat's nose.
Every hair on its body erect to seem as big
as a meadow mouse can, but was still smaller,
relatively, than I would be facing a lion
on the African veldt. The blueberry bush
over their heads became a spreading tree.
Our little cat was too young to realize
its responsibility.Wisely the mouse decided 
to run, discretion the better part of valor.

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