Glory of the Snow —
like annual offerings
to the godly roots
of our grand old oak,
in thanks for surviving
another Northeast winter.
NaPoWriMo #8
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Category Archives: NaProWriMo
NaPoWriMo #7
she has asserted her place in this house,
sprawls there every afternoon
at the same time,
leaving behind both
play and stress,
whatever mess she made
of paper and string,
even the cushions left
to lure her into comfort;
she chooses, instead
all that she needs: a sill
wide enough, a window that
floods her with sun.
NaPoWriMo #6
often
I have nothing to say
so, instead
I sew
stitches
instead of words,
which at least
have practical
value
NaPoWriMo #4
70
I had planned, for my 70th spring,
to blog my way down the East Coast,
searching out the names of those
I knew along the way,
planting new memories
that would grow old even
more slowly than I.
I would take my time,
sleep in my little SUV
if necessary, charge my laptop
as I drive, stop where
hot spots showed strongest,
keep my story going to no end.
That time had come. And gone.
And I no longer dream of
long distance running, taking
that last flight from anonymity.
Instead, I wander garden hot spots,
searching for the solitude
to rock instead of run,
to stop in time and
contemplate the passing
of Roger Ebert,
who was 70.
NaPoWriMo #3
Wintersowing
It starts early,
this need for green,
as the land waits
in white quiet.
We dream a riot
of leaves greening
in the sun, calling
color from the deep
of a bland landscape.
Sunflower seeds, sowed
sheltered from the frost,
release the hopes
of wintered hearts and
suddenly spring green.
“The sun, the sun, and all we can become.”
(Theodore Roethke: What Can I Tell My Bones)
NaPoWriMo #2
three cats sleeping
in the drifting sun;
later, they will tussle,
mock-biting, and then
they will sleep again,
follow the sun,
dream with their claws,
love with their tails.
It’s NaPoWriMo
It’s National Poetry Writing Month — 30 poems for thirty days.
Here goes #1.
Some say the world will end in fire,
a sudden spike of life and then the glory.
But for her, it was a slow fall into
the cold of oblivion, the bones of her face
sharding like ice, her fingers blue crystals
clutching frigid white sheets,
sliding toward the final winding.