Snow Whispers

clouds are holding secrets of snow
here in the hush we whisper
as they do – softy – wondering
waiting for white to settle and
displace grey light

where is the wonder of silence?
they have fastened themselves
to screens and chairs
blinded by an artificial light
the blind type with their thumbs
and lead the blind

come out into the wood, child
here is the true light
look up and look round
take off your shoes and stare
at the rosy grey brown branches bare
and weep for all that has been lost
and found

waste time here
come and find
what time is really and what is wasting
here in the hush come and whisper
the place where you’re standing is holy ground


Autumn arrives on a train headed east

Headed right off the edge of the world

She comes in with two carpet bags and an indefinable sense of style

A scarf thrown carelessly – no, effortlessly – over her shoulder

I am all jealousy

Autumn has come

With no hint of maple sweetness


With every brisk vivacity of color and saturation

I am all falling over myself

To find out

How she manages to wake up like that in the morning

And I long to be Autumn

Like a young girl longs for romance and roses

Spending long afternoon hours

Gazing dreamily into heaven

Twirling her hair around her finger


The Frosted Glass – a morning poem

It’s the powder room at the end of the hall
That no one else ever uses
(most likely, because it has no shower, no counter space)
This is the one I like the best
With its twin, tall, thin windows
I love the powder blue of its walls
And the way the light breathes softly
Through the frosted glass
I love the stillness that rests in that light
The reminder to be quiet and to use my eyes
Less for focusing on tasks, and more for freeing myself in beauty

I fill my open hands with cold water
Smile, and laugh at the bubbles,
Before I splash it over my face
I am diving
Into the morning

Because there is no counter,
I place my things on the window sill
Like little treasures, lit by morning light
And I tap some liquid foundation –
The size of a Himalayan bluebell –
In the palm of my left hand
Use my right hand to finger-paint my face
And I am a child and I am a painter
And I am painting myself
To look more like me
The way I paint these poems – focusing on the true colours, putting out of sight the meaningless distractions, yet doing so lightly, leaving visible the imperfections that prove that this is real, that I am real, that these words are true.

And I string all these things onto the necklace of the morning like the pearls
Of a rosary
And I hail Him from Whom all blessings flow
And I fall in love again with the Poet and the Poem
And the powder blue powder room
And the light through the frosted glass of morning