all winter wanting

to do something color-splashed
important as love, a layered thing
to be peeled and savored, sparkling

within, remembered like first spring sun
on your skin, green finger-strong snapping
of marigold heads, spilled apart and all

feathered seeds teased out, cast on
to wind or soil or sand

On Houseguests and Crochet

You come to meditation by thread
and hook, shutting as many doors
as you can between smiling
frustration and the rise and rise
of voices—smoke-deaf, she tends to loud
and knows something
of everything—used to solitude
you now crave it like drink
stealing sips in any dark corner
stitching round and round
because you can
use another pair of socks
and it’s too early for bed

Other People’s Mail

You would think I’d know better
than to draw conclusions
but it’s that time of year—
overworked carriers
and bitter cold to boot, dark
before the new guy comes
and what with partygoers’ cars
blocking both sides of the street
my fading numbers covered
by the wind-skewed Christmas swag
(only one digit’s difference
in our address begs the fail)—
again, today, I got your mail

Had you been home
I’d have brought it to your door
icy sidewalk notwithstanding
nor new-kitchen contractor’s van
in your drive—the high-end
catalog, Christmas cards from far
and wide, your trust-fund statement
(or bank-official like that)—
I begin to believe it’s more
than dog versus cat, the good fence
or satisfying strong-magnet snick
of your new-last-summer mailbox
that separates us

Birds, December

the cardinal
a splash of red
on swaying graywhite
tree, fat flakes drifting
driftless wonder
leached bleached or drained
? know-not constant
ceaseless wind a film of
ice in the birdbath
dove flaps and settles
hawk silent still
drawing the eye again
a splash of red
on snow

I was going to let this one languish, but Kerfe inspired me with this lovely post.