Enough Light

The fire is hot.
Tonight the flames burning blue.
There is enough light.

Learning to Play

Mandolin Chord Book
Invites me to sing alone.
Making each string love.

More and More

Rain in January in Vermont
just shouldn't dredge
the beauty from the skies
with dark salt and slippery traps.

The pendulum of a fall
an invincible caveat;
bruises and scabbed shins awaiting
on the stone stairs.

Real danger scampers by
distracting us from melancholy winter weight
or a plastered arm after that stumble
you tell no one about.

The klatch down at the corner laundry will talk
and click the buttons on the umbrellas to release us
from all this liquid.

When the dam lets loose
we will rush into the cold
past our neighbors
like we are running from jail
and the guards are banging much to boldly
on the poor slobs
who will never be ready
for more and more sorrow.

Juggling God's Time

Each heavenly day
I have become a wistful juggler of God's time.

Even when the temperatures plummet
in the beautiful varnish of Vermont snow
I feel drastic thoughts
of green and apple blossoms
so thick with love
I nearly choke on them.

Today I grovel
in my prayers and talking to the heavens
while the sun sets pink and golden
with more truth than reality can handle.

Here is where I toss the balls in the air
all at the same time
and see which ones I can catch
and throw without effort
into the weightlessness of nothing.

Small Poem for a New Year

This trail marks a break
straight and directly driven
to the edge of joy.

We Will Not Be Lost

This morning my mind is as feral as the wind,
thwarted at finding stillness
when there is so much to be done.

My heart will depart at her own volition
and walk nearer to silence,
dismissing the forceful gales of distraction.

This grist of too many thoughts
in a pristine landscape of winter's invitation
to observe the starlit skies
and to wait is a gift.

Love the swirl of blinding ice
the gathers on the juniper branches
and weighs us down with love.

Even in the darkness and chaos of the storm,
we will not be lost.

Holding Their Breath for Words

As if sleeplessness grants some sort of warped prestige
I wobble out of meddlesome blankets, the scaffolding of warmth
when the thermostat plunges from daytime highs
into dreaming lows for slumber

and saving the planet.

In bare feet and my softest red robe
I dare to plough into the traffic of another day
with hot tea, bindled sweet with raw gratuity
and half cream

toward a poem that gathers angels
and senses the world with a heart
drunk with love punch
and hope for something better.

The clear sky and winter stars
call my mind out the kitchen window
where snow and still trees wait
holding their breath for words.