Indian Winter

Indian winter

A week of warmth

Then cold and snow

Wet and heavy

Bending branches

It’s only March

This can go on for weeks

Then wind and rain


The season of mud and broken limbs


The immutable promise

That it will happen

But what will it bring?


Like what we wish for

Must be accepted with care

Especially when they’re mutable.

March 2015


Another evening, as the light grows dim,
And crystal cold air crackles around the black oak,
The last few sparrows dart and chitter, grabbing one last seed.
Snow drifts down, silent, peaceful and dreamy.

In the dark come the dreams of sun and green.
In the petrifying cold come vague sensations of softness and warmth.
Behind the frozen puffs of breath come phantom whiffs of rain and trees in bloom.
In the deadly grey and black of night come fantastic visions of flowers dancing in the wind –
.     Tulips, jonquils, scillas, snowdrops –
.     Red, yellow, blue, white –
.     White as snow.
Another February night drifts into snowy blackness and dreams of spring.

February 2013

In the Spring

In my well planned garden in the spring,
A blowing rain ungrimes the moiling earth.
As hawk-winged sunshine stoops upon the soil,
Up poke the giggling prepubescent sprigs
That lagomorphic whiskers glibly nip.

In my well planned garden in the spring,
A warm wind sweeps across the land,
Awakening buds that burst from orchard twigs.
‘Til dark and still, in creeps the late night frost,
Whose pruinose talons coldly grip and kill.

The hungry rabbit and budding bloom
Do not know the hazards of the spring.
Such precious newness lacks immunity,
In my well planned garden in the spring.

February 2012

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