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
land ahoy.



One by one,

One by one,
winter lifts its long fingers from the deep freeze
where they have grown, collecting crystals
month by month

with its diamond file
sharpens them precisely then slips out to
test an edge on the skin of our necks
and back it goes

sitting in the shimmering dark
wearing the glimmer of a smile
as it hones and shapes, and the wind
comes calling


Mad for a moment

Fling open the door:
the wind blows cold

but we hear chickadees
and as the snow peels back

smell mud
a hint of greening
and Spring’s buds
inching toward light.

Impatient to be out
of its woolens and flaking cells
our skin clamours to be bared
against soft sun,

our hair daydreams
of a ruffling breeze.

Mad for a moment we drag
shorts and shirts from bottom drawers

dash to the porch
to stand for seconds of glory
then tear away, back inside
warmed by a certain future.


and wakes in April

All winter the lawn has loafed
under its thick white quilt
and wakes in April, tousle-headed,
crusty-edged, and with the freshest shoots of weeds
curled cheekily in its damp, bare places.

Afternoon sun, a stiff rake,
and the layabout sits, chastened,
scrubbed and alert:
waiting to don a new green suit.