on oak

reciprocating away into the pile
the swedish steel squeals
and like so many times
above what a beaver loves
the wood yields next year
and todays heat nearer
the arms the heart

on snow

under the snow does
the grass grow
or is it that the
green lacks
everything that
belongs to those
who are in the know

Tomorrow is to be sunny and fourty and unusual for february.  And unused to it as I may be I may be unusual too.  And tomorrow when the sun ticks up to the clock and shows a hand full of bluff and bluster then and only then will I fall down into the remnants and make a make or break decision.  Then the truth.  There the crux.  Onto whos shoulders but mine must the sun dump a whole eternity if not the green green grass on the other side of the fence that we will never know?

visions_versions_lopi

opening the flue to let
the rising flames rip
right as the cold sets
overnight on the coast

litmus

the water touches up
the ice with brushes
bunches of passes
lists of the last
chances to fall in
simmer in the frigid minutes
clamber till digits
shiver rigid with
the great gull pretender
solid white on silver ice

even if i do

even if i do
cook all the dinner
in one pot
even if i do
eat all the dinner
out one pot
even if i do
use a silver fork
even if i do
those things you say
even if i do
still at dinner
a man of the people
even if i do
use a silver fork

 

on blitzen

believe me or believe me
not what the singular
sun lacks whilst
imbued with elements
light and plentiful
is a hefty sense
of responsibility

today the clouds expired
for a moment
and at then when that was
the singular source
of true emissivity
lit up the alley
and shone on those
broken shells left behind
caskets made perfect
for the photons
final resting place

at the window

each seed a sparrow
each sees and seizes
leading edge trailing
wing tip vortices
infinites in the breeze