Snow Drifts Like Frozen
Time and Motion at the End
Of Wind Swept Furrows
But I am Thinking
Early Spring, Listening for
The Crane’s First Calling
Seeking the First Buds
On Bare Tree Limbs, and All the
Day’s Green Potential
Even Then, the Melting
Reveals a Sun Warmed Rock, and
Tells Another Story
As Drifts Curve ‘Round Like
Ripples From a Pebble Dropped
In a Summer Pond
Another Winter’s Dawn
Drawn in Symphonies of Gray
And Played in Silence
A Morning Fog Floats,
Quiet as a Silent Prayer,
Into the Tree Tops
A Fog That Softens
All Sight and Sound and Maybe
All We Think We Know
Snowflakes Drifting Down,
Gently as Forgiveness, to
Shroud Every Sharp Edge.
Snow Falls Like Dreaming
Talking to Myself, Believing
Not a Single Word