bed head

last summer's cock-comb glory
- ochre spikes,
husked flowers, dried
- their chimes now
only paper thin whispers

held in virgin white

but this Winter Queen
seeks no groom

old shed

sag-boarded,spindle beamed,
bowing beneath the weight
of snow's cap

having lost its bark
to the dogs of winter,
the shed
is naked to the frost

winter stream

there is a stream
flushing the hillside

the salt, the grey-brown
vomit of winter spurned
by traffic
and municipal sand

it hides
beneath the arched cap,
a vaulted snow

secret

for a while

I saw ...

grass greened in hope,
bunched beneath the wait
of winter

held

their fall frozen,
icicles

wait

as if
they

had
for
gotten

some

thing

got it covered?

mittens too big
for possible hands,
the feminine coat marches
up the hill, through the snow

wonder if its owner
knows?

tracking winter

there are tracks, punched
through the crust of rime
paws, pads, hooves

I can measure the width,
the stride

estimate the degree
of the trespass

wonder at the bulk and the size,
the why of a leg
dragged here
and there

the empty, barren yard
in the howl
of winter

is not

Bird's high view

It is a stark crucifix
in an ice blue sky
sliding the heavens
on the crank
of winter's wing

Wasn't it a Wednesday?

it's kind of flaky,
this stack of days

wintered, squalled

iced, baked, then iced
again

drifting into the bank
of memory

where time's erosion
may white it out