I remember the smoke
above the horizon,
spreading out until dusk
swallowed it whole.
People stared across
the plain, tested the wind,
wondered which way
the fire would turn.
But I was transfixed
by something invisible
attending to our sorrows.
* This poem is based upon a memory of a prairie fire near Littleton, Colorado when I was three years old. It is one of my earliest memories.
the first frozen
day and my whole
world is swallowed
in snow. quiet air
chills my bones
as i draw each breath.
exhale.
every grey puff
is winter’s sacred
meditation chime,
an invocation
of gratitude as time
fades quickly away.
Special thanks to Jamie Dedes for her Wednesday Writing Prompt. She graciously included winter offering along with the responses from other poets today on her blog, The Poet By Day. If you don’t already follow her, I recommend it.
wind weaves through the graves
whispering names long worn
from the headstones. we visit
on anniversaries, speak in low tones,
but mostly sit, as if before a mirror,
wondering what face will appear.
how many years will these ghosts
stay with us, whispering secrets
we will only understand when light
fades giving way to brighter sight?
* From Awaiting the Images
The leaves do not fear fall,
and the fading sun
does not quarrel with the moon.
The berries on the bough
are bitter indeed, so why
do I walk in these woods
on frozen nights of shadow
when you have not been here
for a thousand years?
we argue in circles, dig
deeper trenches around
our ideas, ineffectively
bombing a moving target.
exhausted now, we share
the water, bread, and wine
until we summon strength
to fuel our wounded pride.
between the night
and light of day,
the truth sometimes
appears in the same
shadows that harbor
our deepest terrors.
at dawn we awake
with a sense of wonder,
of worlds unvisited
yet somehow known.
Embed from Getty Images
Clear cold nights remind me
of the Ozarks, of looking
through the leafless trees
standing like skeletons
who shield the silent stars.
Tonight the branches cradle
the moon in a ribcage,
and I wonder how this light
shines after so many years.
Under the winter sky I stand,
my lungs burn from the frigid air.
Silence is welcome since words fade
quicker than the puffs of breath
measuring my mounting loss.
This ramshackle soul may be built
for eternity, but the finite still
crushes these bones to dust,
freeing the soul to finally fly.
Some days the words are slow to form,
and my mind is as empty as the lines
on the waiting pages. Hours pass
before I notice the soft tapping of sleet
against the window, reminding me
of the time I ran across the sidewalk
at grandma’s house, and my foot slipped
on the ice. I hovered parallel to the ground
before crashing hard upon my back.
For a moment I could not catch my breath,
and I blinked in wonder when the stars
watched me gasp for the freezing air.
we fill our days
wrestling with words
since we do not agree
on the meaning
of love. so how
can we love each other?
do we continue
sharing sacred
space where all
may stand in silence?
how can we pray,
side by side, and peek
from almost closed eyes
to keep watch
over our neighbor?
Awaiting the Images 