Shadows

As the sun slides down from noon to dark,

the shadows form, dusky outlines that creep

across the landscape, shadowy forms conforming

their shapes to where they fall, straight and tall

against my home, or laid flat, wrapped over

and around an uneven ground, the hills and valleys,

rocks and roots, odd shapes that litter my yard,

the shadows growing long in the sun’s setting,

even my own, standing here at day’s end

watching the sun settle itself over the lake,

turning the sky to blue and orange, pink vermillion,

lengthening behind me, my shadowy self,

darkening, too, conforming, creeping slowly

along the water’s edge reflecting sky and night approaching,

dissolving, as shadows do, at the end of the day.

In Spring’s Early Warming

In spring’s early warming, the crocuses’ green shoots

 

shoot upward in the space cleared now by the snow’s melting

 

along the edge of the house, sun warmed, appearing magically,

 

a spark of green drawing my downcast gaze one morning,

 

the old and cold days of too-long winter winding down,

 

growing upward, sunward, to reveal themselves bright

 

among the snow lying dirty where I’d shoveled all winter,

 

banking the house to stay warm, to trap the heat, and now

 

sprouting, spring’s first growth announces itself

 

in regal trappings, purple, violet, and gold, new growth waking us

 

all after the cold and dark of winter dormancy.

Fairy Tale Woods

In the fairy tale woods where I live,

thick forests growing over and over grown,

on trails going deeper and deeper into the darkness,

Hansel and Gretel still drop their breadcrumbs,

a breadcrumb trail to find their way out,

find their way home; and still, as the tale is told,

the birds fly down, snatch away the crumbs

that mark their way, mark my way, too, through

these same woods, dark and overgrown, growing over,

fairy tale woods through which we all must pass,

on darkened trails going deeper and deeper,

holding hands, hand in hand, dropping crumbs

and finding ourselves, at last, at the witch’s door,

locked away and fattened, till tricking her we leave,

changed and moving on: one step closer, now,

to the happily-ever-after we seek, the journey’s end

away and through the fairy tale woods where I live.

This Morning

 

This morning, waking up and preparing to do
 

what I do each day, a bowl of cereal before me
 

and the caffeine of coffee to jolt me awake,
 

this slow drink slowly drunk to keep me here,
 

leisurely enjoying the quiet of the morning
 

amidst the litany of bad news broadcast,
 

the robins are speaking outside my window,
 

calling out to each other and responding back,
 

a conversation overheard in my eavesdropping,
 

hearing them, brought into their dialogue to welcome
 

a new day, this new day renewed renewing me,
 

the robins and I welcoming the morning sun
 

arising on us all, preparing to do what we do each day.

Anticipation

The calendar and the ground hog both

tell me it’s not spring yet,

as does the snow still covering, clinging

to its own life in the bright light

of the day’s warming, the mornings, still cold,

chilled by the darkness of the long nights’

slow shrinking into spring and summer;

again, the morning pulls me out into its cold and darkness,

a faint glow showing, growing in the east, hopeful,

pulling me forward, gloved, my collar pulled up

against the wind blowing, a breeze, brisk,

tugging at the warmth I hold within me,

shoulders shrugged, my arms held tight against me,

hugging myself, but I pause now, stopping,

hopeful, too, listening through the rush of morning waking

for spring’s first resident’s return,

a flutter of wings or the unseen sound of her chirp,

her sharp chip or long trill calling out,

echoing, spring’s greeting in the cold air

of winter hanging on, calling out, announcing herself

and chasing away my winter doldrums,

rising up, carried by the warmth of a Robin’s return.