in the sugar patch
old metal buckets
wearing their hats of snow
For Generations
The Long Fence
white posts and rails
stretch farther than memory
fastening the farm in place
Sparkle
morning light
on last night’s
weightless accumulation
White Hive
the storm today
swarming
like bees
The Playhouse In The Pines
March is a time
of being between things
watching winter through the sun porch window
The Dairy’s Driveway
in the winter
like the cows
mostly black and white
Melt
only the sun knows
when the roofline
will give way
Old Rose
blossoms
gone to hips
still reaching for the sun
The Orchard In Winter
revealing the sense
of being solitary
inside togetherness
Welcomed
the softness
and mysterious white light
oh to be enveloped in silence
Stillness Settles On
in February
only snow
ascends the hay ladder
Which Way
no right way
straight or meandering
still arriving at the same place
Winter Is A Spider
weaving with cold
leaving an icy web
to catch the days upon
Calligraphy Of Leaves
the story of summer
written in winter
told by the fall
This Morning Didn’t Rise
some winter days
never seem to wake
they dream through to the next night
A River Seal Revealed
sniffing the air
perched on the birch stump
surprise visit from a fin-footed friend
This Season’s Thinness
a winter lean of snow
the ribs of old corn rows
still visible
Holding Place Until The Lamps Are Lighted
an insistence
of light within
the gathering grey
The Buddha Sits
neither chasing
nor evading
what is
All Those Times Of Reaching Out
each one mattered
even now
with the limbs foreshortened
Come Home Soon
watching for the neighbor’s light
their curl of chimney smoke
to feel so not alone
February’s Gate
ready to swing wide open
for any and all
kinds of kindness and love
Woodland Expression
shadows and the softness
given by distance
deliver an abstracted woods
Through The Window
the view
enhances my outlook
on all the comforts of inside
Moss And Snow
seeming strange bedfellows
yet nestled sweetly together
companions during winter’s long sleep
The Sky Sighs Snow
quiet
falls down and piles up
manifesting the white depth of solitude
Resounding
when the tall tall pine
holds onto snow
I see the echo of every Christmas
Far Away And High
insistently
you knock
drawing my eye
Flow
I long
to take life’s curves
as gracefully as the winter brook
Sneaking By
there below the terrace
the elusive metal heron
keeping thoughts of summer alive