Untitled
Having fallen off the
edge
of winter I have become
the unraveled rim of a basket,
the moonstone missing
from a favored ring.
of winter I have become
the unraveled rim of a basket,
the moonstone missing
from a favored ring.
The earth fills up with snow,
edge to edge, level as a knife
across a cup of flour,
featureless as death.
There is no here, no there,
no past beyond my own construction.
Hindsight is a greedy crow
and every time it flaps its wings
I remember what I've missed
Small pieces sliding into place
make sense at last, connected
like dried leaves trapped
in a thawing stream
as silent as the possibility
of what comes next
This morning, fog (below us, up here on the mountain) buried the valley village. All I could think of was snow. August. Perseids next week. Then the county fair ends, and beep beep boop....winter. Oy.
ReplyDeleteit creeps up. it creeps up.
ReplyDeleteIm somewhere in the middle of June right now,
wondering why the calendar says August.
It was 50 this morning.
Last week I was, too. Now im a month away
from 70. yikes.
And when you start getting those deep morning ground fogs, you just know. That always meant blueberry season to me, when Id go out to see if it had rained or not, and then Id look straight up and see the blue sky and knew we'd be working that day.
Oh don't wish the summer away yet - September is usually gorgeous here, and I'm not ready to get the sweaters out yet.
ReplyDeleteHere in the desert, the daily temperatures are sizzling, so I welcome your winter poem!
ReplyDeleteMy Six Words
nice cool poem for my hot summers day!
ReplyDelete=) thanks, it does seem to lower the temps a bit
ReplyDeleteStop it! Canadians everywhere are curled into a fetal position!
ReplyDeleteWe share your weather, GC. Sometimes you even give us some of yours. All's fair.
ReplyDelete(That's funny, btw. I can just see it)