This cloud

december mist3

This cloud hangs heavy for all,
but I feel the weight, damp and clammy,
the hand wrapped across my mouth, muffling the cry.

Who hears in this cold sea,
where drowning trees wave their arms,
shaking birds into the sky waters?

I listen but nobody comes
to ask the way or leave a note.
Crows make their show on the wires.

Day dims as it grows into midday,
through the falling rain into evening, the swollen time
when the sun should burn the clouds bonfire red

and the world give up
its ghosts to fly owl-winged
through the rustling dark.

Phantom fog



We start the day in fog that clings so wet

And coats the trees in grey of mud made air.

Not bitter cold this solstice time and yet,

We start the day in fog that clings so wet.

With thoughts of sunlight and regret,

That winter gnaws the bones and strips them bare,

We start the day—this fog that clings so wet

Coats phantom trees in grey of mud made air.

December rain


Rain falls.

Silence reigns over these meadows

where brown leaves drip into the lush autumn green.

Only birds still call in the stillness,

the small twitterers,

whose lives revolve around a seed head

or a tardy insect.

Rain drips

until the frost comes,

and the seeds hide

in the cold bare lap of winter.

In this world of cold and damp dearth

which among these bright specks of hope

will see the spring?

Winter tree


In the dark December tree,

Black branches bare against the sky,

Cold mist clings and drips

And the last leaves flap

The heavy, brown flags

Of summer’s surrender.

In the dark tree,

Among the dead leaves,

Robin pours his winter song,

Red throat a winter bloom,

Ember of summer fire.

The leafless tree,

Claimed by the freezing mist

And bleak hand of the north,

Fills with music.

I close my eyes

And the bite of the cold

For the space of a song

Is a little less deep.