Late-winter evening, a light snow,
6:30 on the first day
after the clocks spring ahead
standing on the road below my house
surrounded by fields, woods
and a profound quiet
my ears throb with stillness and a faint ring
from the city traffic I’ve left behind
for minutes no other sound comes by
I listen beneath soft flakes
in a luminous glow
of muted afternoon sun on snow
then solitary barking carries over far fields
brief squawking rises from the trees
down the long trail of the road
around the bends
an engine slowly draws near
and yet I hear
All night the wind filled with snow howls against our walls.
What happens to the animals,
or people still outside
I do not know.
Small ship on a vast ocean our house sails alone through the gale.
Carries us fretting to the borders of morning,
the furnace and the radio
The late March snowfall
melts on Sunday: brown cows
sprawl on matted grass
Snow and snow is all I know
It comes and stays and doesn’t go
It bundles me in peace and calm
The days so short the dark nights long
We play a bit and rest much more
Our weary bodies we restore
Snow and snow I’m glad to know
It’s not yet time for you to go
Moonlit snow records
small creatures’ escapades. Sun
wipes the slate clean.
Feed my winter heart,
my famished, desperate eyes –
pour sunlight on the snow
and brew my spirits’ rise.
Walk you to work through
deep snow. Homeward, I trace our
boot prints, side by side.