As I cast bird seed across the snow
in the dark of five a.m.,
clouds in tendrils pass in front of the moon,
then vanish.
Full on bare moon.
Bird seed cast,
I stop,
and in moon’s light,
vanish.
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Not Yet
the pounding push
to get things done
blows full force
into the batting cage this morning,
and almost a goner,
a turn of my head
and there are the Christmas tree lights
reflecting off the face
of the grandfather clock glass,
the pendulum at rest,
needing to be wound up,
but not yet.
that kind of love
belief in love,
that kind of love,
strong and enduring
weathering the indignity
of frozen,
lying close and tight,
to what was and wasn’t,
holding out in hope
for the exuberant gush
of letting go again,
without doubt or fear,
into pools of each other,
believing in that kind of love.
Photo: Leigh Pumilia
Into white
yes
there is snow
but not enough
to satisfy my longing for
a day lit by
every shade of white
senses filled
with cold crystals
breath carried up
becoming vaporized air
and once aloft
it disappears into
and endless world of white.
Two flames
there is coffee now
and the purring ripple of the pellet stove
two flames in crackling unison
warming just one room.
the dark morning in the single digits
a coastal storm in tow
tomorrow will arrive with the sound of ice
against the windows
and I will wake
wild with radiant awe
winter storms on mornings so dark
stir in me
a giddy reverence
wishing only that the call of grown-up things
did not have to take my dark mornings away
that I could stay here
listening to ice on glass
watching two flames
warming just one room.
where I go…..
out towards the farthest blue
that day
nothing mattered
nothing hurt
the farthest blue
stretching way beyond
anything that ever could
aneverydaypoet60 