Wife, Winter


There are things they never say.
The evergreen trees conspire. 

Older, he’ll die first 
though she’ll never ask,

“What will I do without you?”
Nor will she insist he see 

grief already tugging at her eyes. 
She eats enough for two, 

her widening belly vying for 
recognition. 

Alone, he heads to a ski slope. 
Flanked by wind and silence, 

he acquaints himself with  
the pale heaven.

A bird clutches bristled pine.
Skiing down the mountain 

into the white sea he thinks, 
“I’d like to go out this way.”

Pleased, he hurries back 
to his wife, 

hearth roaring with 
secrets.





Dawn Sojourner


Sometimes she gets lost
circling at dawn
in between the pines.
Silent, you’d never know
she was hunting for nectar 
in the muted sky.
No proof of her at all
until the cable guy 
freed her black body 
from the box above the pines, 
manic wings 
stilled.





Fall Planting


There are people who plant 
bulbs in autumn believing  
flowers arise from frigid kisses. 

Some taunt their spouses. 
I marvel at those who 
return from private winters

as though from death--
gleeful at the first hint of 
crocus.





Veiled Moon


I stare into the pitch of night, 
crescent moon reachable 

in a straight line.
Spot its outline--

a black and white film 
in the winter sky, 

pale stars dotting 
the long corridor. 

I swear what is lost 
is in the eminent shadow 

of the veiled moon,
asleep in settled elm, 

hibernating with bear.
Morning, a woodpecker 
 
feeds herself through
chilled bark. 





Daylight Savings Ends


Scant light flirts with winter’s clarity.
Love is in dormancy. 

Embracing the shadows, 
you hole up with Neruda.