Drops of rain accumulate on the windshield
A beautiful bubbled constellation
Slowly covering the world in a mist
Obscuring even the fog outside
Yet letting in the light
A shimmering shield
The refreshing whoosh of air overhead.
Tag Archives: poem
Spring Thaw
How satisfying to see a path carved into ice
by a tiny stream of water
Jennifer Butler Basile
A tunnel with curved sides,
etched in glass
so solid, yet ephemeral
A rivulet running through the sandy shoal of a street
Sheets cascading around and about our feet
Miniature ice floes to our giant selves
Undermined and fragile at the edges
if dense and sturdy at the center
Inert AM
A pair of disapproving elderly librarians
judging my three-time renewal of books
But I got special permission from the head librarian
A fleece-clad stranger cuddled in,
stealing blankets and real estate
But she’s asleep, so we’re asleep
The intermittent voices of a tin-can radio man
interrupted by the ever-increasing beeps of the alarm clock
Up and at the absurd
As I Once
In the parking lot of a Burger King on the Canadian border
On the bluestone terrace of a bed and breakfast in Vermont
By the cobwebbed window of a general store in the Redwoods
A quiet side street, a rushing river, an elegant table for two:
These are the places I go without going anywhere.
The places I’ve been in past lives,
The places I’d go if unencumbered
by lack of freedom and finances,
responsibility and restrictive routines.
But one blip on the timeline,
they come back to me
as I once went to them.
Dark Matter
Where does a backpack go
confined inside four walls?
Does it sprout legs
and walk off?
Will the underlord of the couch
reveal his hostage?
Where can a blank book hide
from prying eyes?
Filled with private words,
its thick cover is not enough
to disguise it from vengeful fingers and pens.
An errant sock, a puzzle piece, a lego gone astray –
inanimate things seem to take on a life of their own
when children roam the home.
image by Terry Border
In the Time it Takes the Kettle to Sing
I want to knit
I want to write
I want to teach
I want to paint
I want to clean, throw out, dismantle
I want to build, create, assemble
I want to sleep
I want to go out
I want to feel beautiful
I want to wallow in warm, cozy sweatpants
I want
to have the mental energy to do
After(math of) Christmas
After holiday dinner, it’s back home to sweet potato peels on the floor.
curled into ribbons just before rushing out the door.
Dehydrated cantalope cut in the corner,
casualty of a frenzied fruit salad creation.
Boxes and ribbons and crumpled tissue paper
cast about the foot of the tree.
Accumulation of cookie crumbs and candy wrappers,
born of abandoned brooms and dustpans.
Time to pack things away instead of pulling them out,
to undo what took so long to do up,
unwind what’s so tightly wound.
After all the expectation and anticipation,
there is a void –
filled with the scraps of what was pretty and bright.
from xmasfreak.com
Self-Contained
The days are chock full
but I’m not doing anything.
The pages of the calendar fly by
and yet I’m still waiting.
I’m floating, dragging
running, sleepwalking
There is gratitude
peace
joy
I’ve only to reach out my hand and touch it
But I’m paralyzed.
Where do hummingbirds go in winter?
A day of nothing,
that’s what I need to jazz me.
To recharge and kick start the engine.
But there’s always the danger of a day of do-nothing
leading to lethargy,
sad, morose thoughts.
Of not enough energy to do anything productive,
but enough guilt to keep away any enjoyment.
Where do hummingbirds go in winter?
Chopping Potatoes 