Slushy hemlock tromp tracking turkey under rock and ice pillars though a dying city
water dropping off the edge falling over frozen ways
footholds in fallen leaves
grand houses of brick and fern and evergreen
souls holding on mesticious as dead beech leaves
green pools, snow white and drooping, ice chunks dangle and cackle, wet air fresh on the tongue and throat and
demon in her breast and one that Flowers At Night narrated in a British accent, looking for electric poles
streams of crow drift to sleep.
White rooms with wide mirrors be here now and on and on till eyes close and we are one with dark nothing
pits in the macadam are all the Snowfog has left us - obscured and gone missing: entire truck stops, whole neighborhoods, hillsides, floating home in a mysterious Unthank felt and not seen.
I wished I'd brought my camera at least seven times.
Bombs in donkey carts
kites and carpets signal slaughter
Rush moves the world of us listeners about as if it were his own giant Farmville.
What if the machinery of war-making turned its baleful eye towards Haiti and sent everything there to ease their sorrow and pluck them up and begin to build a country for a truly country-less people? Wouldn't this be honorable, heroic?
Snow still very fine for cross-country skiing
over the yards and lawns and through the woods
titmice in the trees, more pictures of ice endlessly attractive hanging in space
days lengthen plus art on walls of our museum* buoy with dumb hope.
What are the names of your pencils?
Ski boots, skis and gaiters bought 25 yrs ago are dear to me and thank goodness for duct tape & string & saftey pins & folks tossing away used ski poles:
In between dumping image cards, burning archives, cleaning the kitchen and rooting around for dinner, the fresh falling snow clumps inspired a dozen shots impulsively - my first snowflakes shots! - grabbed something black and hand-held. Frozen fun had by all.
Earlier a wren hopped around the carport, too, hungrily unafraid, gobbling up every bug it could find in the current scavenged firewood limb pile.
Frances sits in snowdrifts, surveying her world in constant consternation, shaking whiskered head in disbelief.
How fares your driveway now - will you stop telling?
Paint with light in the dark... upper room with a blue blank, pine-scented crayons and coloured lights are in my corner of Dark; how is your dark coming along, is it deep, is it icey, does it bite, do you scream down, all the way down and lie there quivering?
Plow roar in the smokey distance: snowflakes and stars, winter does not lie.
Whiskey, wood and wonder, bring on the basket and send it down, Predators rumble by: 1, 2,3, carrying the snow shovel, alone in the blank cold, ham and potatoes on a plate with war.
This white tide of snow, it comes and comes and comes,
Snow flow, gold ink, green glitter, red pencil, silver stars.
All night long sitting on a cardboard box watching for bunny rabbits in the snow.
Snow crystals sparkling in the night over the silent country, landing on the rabbit ball in the driveway broom-swept next to a lawn all lit up with christmas lights.
Cold dark yard road bush and a wet broom and a snow roof and an ice dam in my gutter. Standing in the snow looking at it, looking at the rabbit holding it's breath, looking at the cat rabbit squirrel girl tracks in the snow.
Envelopes that are open, kitchen cupboards without faces, wooden chairs, stacks of books, a.m. radio above wool blankets. The months of considering whether water runs inside metal pipes... and whether there is free will.
Newspapers in tidy bundles, broken branches in buckets, crushed aluminum, forgotten passwords and telephones that are never answered.