Category Archives: Spring


Preparations in the weary weather worn,
Fine deliberations in thought grown not in common sod but sewn,
Embroidered yesterday’s or last night in the bedclothes, their messages thrown
About the rooms as socks and remnants of the breath at play—torn
Perhaps, and tattered—a little worse for wear but not abandoned,
Not quite graced with station how much  less with purpose on the floors.
As spring pronounces vowels broadly, its consonants are doors
Left not quite closed in hopes that random
Sunbeams, some michievous breeze, or better still, the damp sweet scent
Of trees and odd forgotten hedges stir in later afternoons.
Winter yawns as the tree-veins wake to find within their hour and soon
Upon the arbour, knobs form thence to buds whose walls will rent
In time at last as pilgrim blossoms urging declaration in bulk and natural rhyme
With hope at last while promises expire, replaced by living witnesses to time.

“Though Winter’s Days Are Short”

“Though Winter’s Days Are Short”

Though winter’s days are short they linger long;  nor Shakespeare,
Dickens, rhymes sublime, nor Frost, nor fresh philosophies
Of life replace the supple apple, the simpler breeze,
The ordered clutter of the hardware store, the smell of tires, shears
To cut the hedge defining future refining hours. I take the hint.
There will be another spring. He puts the books back on the shelf;
“To do” will trump “to learn”, the self by turn with elves
At work to hide my pipe, my wicks, and flints
To find me close behind them in the aft;
At best, for me a block of wood, a knife, and, yes,
Another broth sits roundly near my soul. The Saxon riddle gets
A nod from me, and basic the box of macaroni―Kraft
Of course―will do with bits of chicken or the blessing of a flake or two
Of tuna from the can, solace for what he can no longer chew.