snow. motor oil. music.

the snow-

heap oily, scraped

late from the lot

in thin sun

and warmish wind

melts away in rainbow slicks

sticks to my boot heel

hoisted up

to the van's foot mat

by key turn

classical music station

scrapes me up.

an empty street in north France

with snatches of

carols from cathedral carillon.

the eyes prick

notes process like gonfanons

over midwinter.

these things

unknown but necessary

arriving seem late.

Lodestar

Lodestar

advent

the seeming flashes of lightning

earnest pealing

they were

low

jet lights on ascent

entering clouds

blinded passengers breaking

through to look down onto nothing seas

wings slowly icing

and we left standing

in this world below

mirrored hall of soft and eerie

somehow still cheery with velvet chill.

i will grasp your wing hand

pull you up laughing

from snow angel crash-landing

cold melting down your coatneck.

i'll take you child anyday

crash of grace in the backward places

barns we forgot were there

left standing and

how hay was made sweet for this

and rough men by angel tones touched

hope falls simple as an evening snow

and wait

wait before you go.

pageant

1

the snow in minor key

drones against the dark

jet hum and shovel scrape

and rest a silent

silent

silent while.

2

the drive home

the sudden flock of crows

swirls up black against shocks of snow

the closeness of the cars

intensity of faces

pored upon the road

ah this,

this beauty is

a slippery thing.

3

across the half-cleared sidewalk

sits snow barrow

my boy called with glee a fort

couldn't keep quiet long enough to wield his

miniature shovel

all chattery and prancing

two hours later and

I feel faded to ghost

the soul seems so easily

bled on blotter drifts

that boy though

from the snowy hole

burst

this is

the best time of the year!

4

ruddy world

how can it be so delicate and cold

drawing down peace

in this let go

and emptiness

let go let

go

goodwill only

by high piles

slows you, heaping

earth's eyelids closed

heaven her watch keeping.

duck replies

grace my waddle won't wear

your daubs sloughed off broad back-thacking

keep your own flair

for higher expression of self-aware.

the flit of fish in brackish grit

the dangers of the grassen wights

how suddenly gut sends you south:

down feather and grace tuck-under

groom without a moment's waste.

whiskey before breakfast

an irish tune

is a one-way street

is the swirl of stream over stone

is a step too fast for the feet

is the weaving

of fingers reaching

from where we are

the scratch and scrabble

to where we would be

rushing revel

so dance to me my bonnie lass

start with a stomp

end with a laugh

Home for the Holidays

Home for the holidays.

Aphorism, fancy.

syllables barbells of air

fall failing

flailing sycophants

in trumpet tones of elephants

nose high I at times

by simple truths am tusked

and turn to lie.