I Saw Children Running
Light of foot,
Light of heart,
Light of life,
Heavy with love.
Waltz me again
around the Maypole.
It may be cruel but
I’ll take April.
Let me don my green hoodie
and march on Mother Earth.
A New Year
How many times have I removed December
Only to wonder how much I’ll remember
What lies ahead, underneath?
Palm Sunday Monday
Last night and part of today,
a soft filigree of white,
it did not last.
I don't care to repeat
patterns in the snow.
Strips, stripes, diagonals, triangles.
Swooshes are my favorite.
This morning I proceeded without bloodshed
from one square to another, praying
all the while for those who do not have
this snow to shovel.
Taking Out the Garbage
Just now, upon taking out the garbage,
There in the mid-autumn sky were the raptors,
Circling, riding the wind, swirling
But not so high that they were prevented from
Making a straight, killing plunge to earth.
Why did I think of the banks
that control my debit and credit cards?
Second Shoveling – 25 February 2011
Along the ground, the wind blew clear
my path of ice for the mail carrier.
The same wind covered my red car
High up in the sky two Canada geese
Honked and flashed gold in the evening sun.
There is hope.
With appropriate panache
We put away our shovels on Mother’s Day.
Alien Snow, Furrin Flakes
A sad dispatch from the Ontario lake plain
To say we have had a bout of alien snow
Brought to us by none other than global warming.
Not the tongue-tingling, tonsil-testing ephemeral flakes
of our very own Gitchee-gumee lake-effect
But grainy, dense-thick, unmoving sand snow all the way from Texas and the Gulf
left-overs from summer’s droughts and dust bowls.
Not the bouncy, swirling, glistening crystals evanescent fresh from the surface of a Great Lake
But worn-out bits made old by miles of flinty atmosphere.
I am all for diversity, the global village, Esperanto and the United Nations,
But not this alien snow that brings the shovel to a halt.
It is not for us, we who revel in snow and even make a living from it.
Copping a line from old François, Brecht, Brassens, Dame Maggie, and Clifford of Chatterly,
I say not with nostalgia but with repugnance
Mais, où sont les neiges d’antan.
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