For The Love Of Winter

I want to stand in the quiet, heavy darkness

As neighbors settle early

With their books

By their fires

After so many months of toiling

In the long shadows of evening,

Hostage to their harvests,

To marvel at Orion’s hunt

Across the floor of heaven

Like some awed Neanderthal

Seeing it for the first time.

I want to understand things,

To believe in magic,

To summon the ancestors

Down from the mountains

And rest in the shelter

Of their old stories

Told in voices long silent.

I want to see their faces

In the dim light,

Touch their leathered hands,

And have them tell me again

Why these things matter.

I want to celebrate winter.

Season’s End

At season’s end,

There is little more we can do.

The fields are brown,

The pipes drained,

And the hay tarps

Taut with anticipation.

The Linden, Larch, and Locust, too,

Are waiting,

Shed of their graceful modesty,

Arms open

To whatever winter brings

With his return –

Quarrelsome winds

With their gossip

Of who said what to whom,

The bristle of frost

And tears that follow,

The forgiving kiss

Of a bright, clear morning.