Orion's Journey to a Distant Spring

In the clear, cold darkness

of a winter’s night, Orion steps

over my house, lightly, and journeys

westward to the head of the lake

and the hill’d horizons beyond,

disappearing, in time, taking with him

the winter season, winter’s circle fading,

winding down to a distant spring.

Too Cold to Snow

He would tell her, “it’s too cold to snow,”

some old farmer’s tale of winter weather

predicted and sometimes he was right,

often enough to make her believe him,

young girl that she was, in awe of him,

but he was wrong, too, more often perhaps,

the ground covered and coated with snow

and ice and cold, not cold enough,

and the snow falling, obscuring her landscape,

his prediction nothing but an old farmer’s tale,

a myth untested, untried, untrue, as he was,

filling her with a coldness bred

of his own breeding, unable to love,

to give back the awe that she herself had

and lost in growing cold with time and age,

but not too cold to keep the snow from her life,

closing her in and shutting others out,

just cold enough to freeze a heart,

a heart unable to love,

too cold to snow,

too cold to love.

Snow Angels

Look closely, carefully, and you can see the shapes

of angels left in the snow by children grown, now,

too old to fall back, arms outstretched, but falling still

through time and memory, rubber boots and home-knit mittens

silently caressing the snow into win’try gowns and wings,

soft impressions outlined, halo’d in the winter sun;

listen, too, to the angel voices, faint now, and fading,

children’s laughter in the chill air of winter, shrill,

joyous, a joy carried on a breeze still blowing,

gently blowing from the far reaches of remembrance.

Lilacs and Rose Petals

He was a stickler these days for the plowing,

for removing the snow from out of the drive

and the yard, directing young Jeffrey and his diesel

Chevy, a powerful V-8, turbo-charged pickup

with its yellow Fisher Xtreme, just another

job on his long lists of winter clients checked off,

pointing and guiding him away from the buildings

to keep the walkways clear of snow and ice,

and the rose garden, too, though no roses

have grown there for years, since her green thumbs

gave up weeding and spraying and snipping back

the dead stalks and leaves and old buds, ceased their labor,

her hands grown too old and arthritic to pull and prune,

and away from the lilac bushes still blooming

in springs’ revival since that first year, their fragrance

delicate in the spring air when he flings open the windows

and doors to drive out the season’s passing,

the staleness of a house too big and empty,

all gone but himself and the dried rose petals,

brittle to his touch, touched often, all he has left,

that and the sunshine streaming through, new birth

carried on the wind, warm and fresh, and the scent

of lilacs wafting into his memory, remembering her.

Cabin Fever

Despite the beauty of it all

and the curséd snow and wind

blown colder onto the negative

side of zero, I pull on my winter wear,

my hat pulled low and woolen mittens snug,

and, thus braced for the wind and cold,

step out into the snow, armed,

for the shoveling must be done,

an escape route, out of here, out of the cabin

and ensuing fever that would drive us mad,

trapped as we are, as we will be,

against the sanity of a winter storm

bent on keeping us here, shutting us in,

gnawing at our bones.