OPEN STUDIO POEM #18
aplomb
solid
chrysanthemum
collage
secluded
Under snow, under solid ground,
earth knits a fabric of mycelium,
bulb, the roots of chrysanthemum
and rose. The February landscape
shapes a shifting collage
of branch and cloud,
a splash of of jay-blue.
We stay secluded, painting
our lives with aplomb.
MARCH SNOW
This snowstorm’s not exactly late,
In fact, they happen all the time.
This sort of thing’s what we expect
For living in a Northern clime.
Nevertheless, that doesn’t mean
It’s something we appreciate–
Wouldn’t it be more comforting
If winter had a closing date?
COMING TOWARD HOME
I want to love things all by myself,
not looking sidelong to see
if others are loving them, too:
the sky like old blue glass held in by a tracery of trees,
the great horned owl’s cynical question–
Who’s awake?
the falling cold stars of snow.
One night I snowshoed in the woods alone,
the full moon lamplight gleaming
through the lace of soft snow clouds.
Coming toward home I saw in the frame of an uncurtained window
the painting of a summer orchard
above my piano against the green wall,
my husband moving across the kitchen with his teacup.
I thought I would break for joy.
This is an old one. It was published in Calyx, in September, 2000
SPELLS
Winter Prompt #11
1.
Great spider, untangle
the threads you’ve spun.
Turn to dust the husks of bees
and flies sucked dry.
Bits of leaf and fur let fall
and in the dark a new web weave
so in the dawn’s light
we may see the shining shape
of all set free.
2.
Audmula lick us from the ice,
Skadi, hunt up the sun,
free us from this Niflheim.
Bragi, loosen my tongue.
Old man Winter, that Old Man Winter,
He don’t need nothing; he must want something.
He just keeps blowing, he keeps on snowing along.
He don’t wear sweaters, he don’t wear longjohns,
And them what wears them will soon be bygones,
He just keeps blowing, he keeps on snowing along.
You and me, we shovel and strain,
Backs all aching and wracked with pain:
Clear that walk! Chop that ice!
Vermont Life makes the winter look nice.
I get weary, and sick of freezing,
I’m tired of sniffling, and tired of sneezing,
But Old Man Winter, he just keeps blowing along.
GladErrand 