The branches wear snow caps,
fluffy hats of cotton white,
at the behest of old man winter.
When Buddha and the Madonna met
their spirits left a sacred shape
a touchstone for peace and practice.
The river wears the weather like a skin
a snake skin she sheds from season to season
She slithers into winter, slowly slowed until dormant.
bursts with blooms
her Christmas joy.
With a blanket of hay
the garden is tucked in for the winter,
snug as a bug.
Mother Nature decorates the pines with garlands of vines.
Naked branches await
their winter coats of white.
The forest has already begun decorating.
Steel and oak.
Strength at rest.
Endurance is often silent.
In the quiet of the valley
farms and forest prepare themselves
for the demands of winter.
After the leaves are gone
lichen paints the forest green.
A frozen wave encircles the dormer window.
The tube can be ridden from inside the house
until it is dissolved by the sun.
Morning began with a light pink sky so delicate
it could never suggest the evening it brought
and its intensity of red and orange.
Gently comes the new day.
Powder sugar frosted pine.
The cement child with his faithful squirrel
wears his winter cloths
a cap and shawl of snow.
Snow covers the land with quiet,
muting the colors of Fall.
Winter’s paintbrush holds a thousand shades of grey.
We are safe beneath the peaks and eves
as cold gathers in the big grey sky.
Number 498 had a dream
to create a herd of high end sweaters.
The days grow shorter, the land lays dormant.
Rest is essential to creation.
Winter will gestate Spring.
Bold as a butterfly’s wing
foliage sears color into our memory
before the white blanket of winter descends.
The masters of paper machê
built their condo in the trees
and displayed leaf flags.
The first feast is for the eyes
colors and shapes
to feed the soul.
Standing alone I saw a blue moon.
So I held onto my prayer and the dream in my heart
and both were answered in your ring of gold.
The diving ducks race each other.
Running on the surface of the water, shattering reflections,
before launching themselves into flight.
God’s speed web-footed friends.
This is the spot
to rest on the plush pine needle carpet,
listen to the song of the leaves and the river
and hear the wisdom of your own heart.
The pines encircle the most ancient one
who has lost her needles but not her magnificence.
Sacred is the center.
Like a swarm of bees looking for their hive
yellow leaves flutter and buzz in the breeze.
In late fall fragile leaves delicately adorn the trees,
their transient nature intensifying their beauty.
Tiny needles and a massive trunk
are balanced in the pine,