Another Snow

The old snow

stiff as ice

yesterday,

lured creatures

out of holes

to think spring,

climb around,

shed patches

of fur, down,

musically

twitter, sing

                 spring

                          is

                            just

                                 around

                                           the

                                   corner.

A Flurry of Spring

The geese are wearing snowshoes

on the first of spring in March.

They crane their necks, and look about,

and cackle, "Should we go back south?".

It's that time again!

Just a couple of weeks until National Poetry Writing Month! I will post my poems in my blog and at the NaPoWriMo website.





http://www.napowrimo.net/

March

Light snow drifts like smoke from clouds.

The garden plan looks good on the paper

white as the snow on snow.

Is the raised bed three by six?

Four by eight?

The garden

waiting in expectation

for spring's nurturing . . .

snow white hoops arch over

hint at the garden buried for now,

Light snow drifts like smoke from clouds.

Last Day of February

melt water trickles underfoot

cold white sun lights my face

winter wind still blows



but there is hope

Winter: Dusk

Dampness in
the air

hints that
spring

lurks
somewhere

under all
this snow.

But the
cottontail

is still and
watchful;

he ekes out
meager meals

of fallen
seed

beneath my
bird feeder.

I will watch
for him

to not
return,

like the
dove spurning the ark

when it
found dry ground at last,

only then
will spring

spring
unfurl.













My earlier poems are still available at Poetic Splatter .

Sunset

a passing glance

sparse flakes of snow slowly

one cardinal

Competitive Acrobatics

squirrel

     slides

          plummet

                in a V

          through the snow

     downhill to my feeder

          but it's too cold

for birds to fear:

     they glean the scatterings

               shared by

             the inverted

              vertebrate

Three Haiku for Cold Birds

hungry
titmice and

juncos enter
snow tunnels

made at
night by mice

on both sides
of the

cedar feeder
avoiding

conflict:
two blue jays

his tail
thin as a

feather the
elder squirrel

chases no
bird away

Sunday Wandering

The trees' small round doors:

I would like to knock and call on all.

Who will greet me?



Chickadees

chattering their names but spring

is no closer.



If there are owls I

cannot see them but poison

ivy twists up to look.



Who is this cruel shrub

pushing catkins from their nests

into cold January?









The ice booms

beckoning fishermen and

intrepid explorers.



You hurry and cover

more distance but I walk

and find more wealth.



Early winter,

thin snow, ample red berries,

birdsong and squirrel games.



Wanting to wander far

but wiser trees creak a warning

the storm is near.

Hope

Between two days

cutting like slivers of ice,

the warmth of bird song.



The thin snow awaits

its transformation into

spring's rippling streams.



Hand-sawn, fresh split, stacked:

maple, apple, pine, and birch

. . . but for next year.