For 2017

Digitalized photo by S. Auberle

January One

Another year to mend those fences if you can,        

those tattered hearts,  to water grass on this side    

till it's as green as the other.

Let us have champagne and pickled herring,

a chunk of rye bread and poems for breakfast.

Let that pale sun rise far to the south

and ice creep up north windows.

           

                        My African friend says

                        I wish u best of d best…        

Funny how beliefs fall away as we age---

dreams, ideas, salvations,

all dropped along the way

till there's just this --

cold ash in the fireplace

an empty wine bottle,

           

            still there are rainbows

            scattered on the ceiling

            from a crystal someone gave me

            long ago, and hope --

                            always there is hope --

                            that this year will bring us peace   

                            and that thing we most desire     

                            and may they be the same,

                            forever may they be the same.

The Morning After

Photo by S. Auberle

On a morning like this, after you awaken to the deep silence of snow, the first thing is to dress in your warmest red robe and tall, furry boots.  Yes, in the house, boots are necessary till the chill of the rooms is lessened.  Then you must prepare a steaming bowl of oatmeal and top it with a pat of real butter, some brown sugar, warmed blueberries, a handful of nuts and, lastly, some honest cream.  With this in hand you go to your favorite chair by the window and watch the light come up on the pristine, trackless snow.  Even the footprints of the deer you saw last night in the storm, nibbling at the bird feeders seeds, are erased.  No cars, no plow has gone by yet.  It is just you and the peace of winter.  You remember other snow times, perhaps you as a child, making snow angels, sledding that steep hill down toward the creek and missing it, usually.  That pungent wet smell of wool mittens and ice-encrusted snow suits.  Maybe the time you sat with your golden dog on a bench, staring at the white canvas before you, mourning your mother. The evening walks you would take with her after a fresh snowfall, with the scent of pinyon fires all around.   Now no one any more to tell you to be careful out there, and put on your mittens…  The winters you spent in the Colorado and Arizona mountains come to mind now,  with those tall Ponderosa pines framing peaks out your window.  Your clumsy attempts at skiing.  Nights in front of the fire and the Christmas tree, with loved ones now gone from your life.  All this just waiting for you to return back to those other times…forgetting the power losses, the icy turnover, the off road slides, an unforgiving ditch or two.  Happily gone, forgotten -- remaining only peace, a lightening in the eastern sky and a steaming, hearty bowl of oatmeal. . .