1.10.2014
forty four years, vows taken.
Peter’s line through hands
lain on. voices, eyes, empty
moments, opened then to
what will come.
fortyfouryears run together
as if a path lain out like string,
winding, straggling, stumbling
forward to ends and days not
yet full known.
fortyfour and more to come
of Peter’s hands and words
of wisdom. bravery more than
wisdom gathered, burnt
of hollowness and filled.
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1.9
we hardly did anything
and my son said it was
the best of times.
there is a learning
here.
———
1.8.2014
afternoon firestove warms
soles, soul, heart and hearth
for reading a book, cat’s
napping, dog snoozing
toesies keeping.
listen to the faint crackle,
read lies and life into the
leaping oranges blues and
hissing waters that bubble
atop the lid.
I warm my hands around the
hot chocolate ceramic and
smile at the snow outside.
iced panes mean only that
heat has vanquished
and all is well
on a winter’s day.
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1.7.2014
miss piggy pants strolls
across the floor, queen of
all that she surveys and all
that can come within the
rasp of her claws.
tobey dog wisely backs off
whenever she gives him
the eye of death. he knows
trouble and regal machination
when he sees it.
———————–
1.6
wisdom written upon the sky
is what they followed, best
minds, hearts atuned to a
pattern in the universe.
the clouds at evening now stretch
like a dark puzzle, spaces
pushing light through the edges
asking to be put right.
can we see a living hand beyond
or has our search blinded us
to see dead matter only,
sparse
complexity, simplicity, both
akin and spare, with ourselves
only as witness, witless magi, adrift
on a spotless sea.
————————————-
1.5.2014
Mary looks awkward, Joseph
stern, the shepherd boy fidgits
while the wise kings approach
in song
the three of the orient bearing
their gifts, while the choir
angels, wings pasted to their
backs, tell of glorious
tidings
and the black king Herod
orates as if he really will
worship this time, but
we know better.
it hasn’t changed, power
still hates the intervention
and the competition big
or small.
the rest of us just hope that
the power is not all, and
that the One will still come
to change us.
————————-
1.4.14
crisp crinkly snow squeaks
underfoot. the dog rushes
ahead then stops to snuff
at whatever relieved itself
at trailside.
our boots mark the pace
forward though even a step
to the side will leave us with
unsure footing.
someone else has trod this
circuit, their boot sole pattern
opposing our own as we
bundle against the
wind.
this is the best the day will
get so best take use of it
while we can. tomorrow the
cold will really set in. and we
will stay in.
it is Minnesota after all.
—————————–
1.3.14
weather watcher rushes
through. forty seven high,
tomorrow three below.
fifty degrees in twelve
hours. hello. what part
of winter did we miss.
today the long under
wear was in hibernation
tomorrow I am.
—————————–
1.1.2014
bitter cold holds us in
as if we needed more
to hold us back from
the world.
hiding is the preferred
way through. never
let ‘em see your real
self.
never trust. never tell.
hold yourself in until
you bust. and then you’ll
be fine.
except for all the lonely.
and the bitter cold.
———————————
12.31
wide flat snow fields fade up
into the sky, pink blushes sliding by
at the horizon as we travel north
towards homes that have
forgotten the prairie runs which
gave them life.
breath catches in our throats
like a knife’s edge sighing through
layers of thought, the quiet,
simple cold fitting upon us like
the scabbard of a king: royal,
sacred, and longing to be filled.
at the turning of the year life hovers,
breathes, and moves on.
and we perhaps make too much
of the passing. as if the fields would
not be as quiet and open and filled
with light, if we did not mark them.
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