The First Snow of the Season

It’s the first of November
and I wake to find
a shiver of snow
outside my room.

The quiet street
is dressed in white:
the telephone wires,
the slanted roof,
the old magnolia tree.

I watch a bird
as he flits and flutters
from bough to bough
beneath the true-blue sky.

The moon, meanwhile,
lingers, leftover,
by the morning sun,
like a hope of love
fading reluctantly
into the frosted air.

1, 2, 3

1, 2, 3
The girl is on her knees.
4, 5, 6
The boy lights candlesticks.
7, 8, 9
They’re running out of time.
10, 11, 12
The church is ringing bells.
12, 11, 10
They’re meeting once again.
9, 8, 7
Their prayers float up to Heaven.
6, 5, 4
Their love is at the door.
3, 2, 1
The sorrowing is done.

Teeny-Tiny Poems

Rain
rain
rain.
The flood will be terrible.
You lost me at the first déluge.

. . .

Ever the sailor,
he set out
across the Sea of No Return.

At least he left me his hat.

. . .

Five days of wind,
two of rain –
A week of slumber,
.a year of pain.

(Image credit: E. H. Shepard.)

Lost in the Wood

Pray with the passion of unswept moors.
Write from the valley of tears.
Sing of the sadness that troubles the dark.
Unbottle your holiest fears.

Follow the path that leads through the night.
But don’t get lost in the wood.
Tell me your sorrows, and I’ll tell you mine –
If only, if only I could.

The Waiting and the Coming

The waiting and the coming,
The starting and the end,
The striving and the ceasing,
The fork around the bend.

The waking and the sleeping,
The ripping and the mend,
The loving and the hating,
The long-forgotten friend.

A Door and a Window

The door to my heart
is closed.

But the window –
well, I left it
unlatched,
hoping you’d be
brave enough
to hoist yourself up,
open it,
and climb right through.

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