February

February is a month of blizzards.

Snow roaring in like wildcats from

the mountains looking for anything

to devour.

Snapped power lines send us

back to zero before the birth

of fire and light. My sanctuary

is a prison.

I age another year in February

in a fever of confinement. Lost

in books of places I will never

see.

I could tolerate winter if it

were boxed into February

and March began the dance

of spring.

Downsizing

In my dreams, I am always clearing

out the cellar. Throwing away the

good things with the bad as I am

annoyed with how long they have

been there. What will we do with

all the stuff before the new owners

move in? We didn’t really move

that often, but when we did

it was life threatening. No

matter how many layers we

peeled off, there were still more.

I would love to walk through

life unencumbered but it is

not to be. I crave too many things.

So I accumulate and let go

over and over again. Even now

I wonder if I should leave all

my treasures in place for my

children to dispose of or shall

I shrink my possessions down

gradually until I am ready for

my smallest home. 

Winters without snow

mean color challenged days

of deforested ambition, a

gaunt and dampened mood.

No star-struck bits of lace

to crystallize attention

and liven up the view.

No silent print of fox who

journeyed through the quarry

secretly at night.

Instead, a plainsong chant

with poverty of pitches

like bumblebees in flight

and colors that recall old

mushrooms decomposing

along the carriage road.

Such winters never grieve

at leaving us uncovered

and shivering in the cold.