OPTIONAL POETRY

The road paved in ice
and that damn owl

playing hopscotch
on the roof all night.

The room too warm,
the smell of snow

came in a cracked
window at three,

such an unbecoming
hour, and it seems

there will never
be enough– I mean,

there isn’t
a leap or reach

that isn’t preface
to a landing.

The road paved in ice
and that damn owl

playing hopscotch
on the roof all night.

The room too warm,
the smell of snow

came in a cracked
window at three,

such an unbecoming
hour, and it seems

there will never
be enough– I mean,

there isn’t
a leap or reach

that isn’t preface
to a landing.

Snow, flat cold,
a perfect veiling
of place,

except in
the midmorning sun
by the rabbit run

it’s melting
a bit, still
there may be more

to come
and for once
I long for it,

for enforced
simplicity
and stillness,

how softly
and subtly
it comes down

to transform
the landscape
even as I watch.

Insistent owl at dawn–
clouded, it may snow,
but it’s undecided,

still dumping in
the mountains,

and somewhere,
someone is traveling
someplace else.

Quick cold
when the sun fell
behind the butte,
but this day
was longer than
the last,
and so will
tomorrow
and the day
after that.

A pink-gold glow
on distant snow–
not many people
came out this far
this year,
the road is quiet
and distant lights
reflect off the lake,

so warmly,
a small city, now,
under a waxing
crescent–
still a coyote slinks
down the street,
hills and culverts
enough of a home,

he was probably
out somewhere
nearby as I
continued my walk
well into twilight,
happy to share
the piecemeal
peace, happy
to be happy,
happy to be.

The unbelievable
brightness of snow,

coming from low gray
the mountain pass

was a different day
set inside

a bleaker one.
Only thirty minutes

to make it through
the graphic reach

of trees,
the whole wide

scene a black
and white book

for new born eyes,
awe displacing

fear entirely,
for a moment

the hard rime,
the steep grade

descent, forgotten,
lost in the story

that ends with:
even in all this

there’s a kernel
of kindness.

And so we begin,
again.

It’s harder to wrap
up this year,

odd angles,
the paper sliding,

the tape run out–
In all seriousness,

there’s less
of a veneer

this time, things
are very much what

they seem to be,
not good. Of course,

this may be because
I didn’t decorate,

about to leave,
again, and need

to pack and mail
those bills already–

I think instead I’ll go
run through the forest

and try to smell
the evergreens,

under rain, it’s doubtful,
but there’s still

comfort and joy
there, I can see why

we like to bring
them inside.