slipslides

the harry potter morning party
we hold in bed:
one of us reading one of us listening
under the warmth of the covers
cozy in the winter
that feels like it won’t end
_______
the whitescape outside
that won’t be going anywhere soon
based on the approaching temperatures
_______
i never want to have to do that again i say
once we’re in the door
about driving
even though it was only seven miles
there was too much uneven snow packed ground
too many little slipslides
on the way

thank you for the rainbows

sun through window through
round prismy crystally thing
turning the glow to rainbow shards
that toss themselves
onto the white surface of the stove,
the cork flooring,
the light blue kitchen walls
while jennifer stands at the sink
in the brightness
thanking kate
for the rainbows

icicle bending

how the wind with snow in it
on the ridgetop
(all day, 30 miles per hour maybe)
smudges the landscape beyond
into a greybluewhite blur
_______

the curved icicles
slanting in the direction of the wind
hanging from the neighbor’s place
how we stand at the window
and laugh out
into the brutal
icicle-bending
wind and weather
_______

i worry about them i say
about the trees whose branches are heavy with ice
how they click and clack in the wind

scritch scratch scrape

it comes off in sheets and sheafs and flakes,
the ice i scrape off the rear (exposed) window
of the hatchback
_______
rain, the sound of rain
amid all this snow
icerain on the rooftop
icerain on the kitchen skylight
icerain coming down and down and down
what is the name
for the mild kind of panic
over weirder and weirder weather
_______
coyote howls
stretching out into the snowcoated night,
the thick wet white stuff coming down
as i scritch scratch scrape
the rainfreeze from car windows and handles

shovelful by shovelful

the heat of the oven at 425 degrees
how i beckon juniper over
to catch a glimpse of the poofy
pumpkin dutch baby before it collapses
_______
the rhythm of snowmelt
sliding off the slant of the porch roof
and percussing into the bottom of the five gallon bucket
i hold gathering water drip by drip in the sun
to rinse out compost scraps
_______
shovelful by shovelful
the weight of snow
that i dig away to reveal
the propane tank underneath

paw prints pressed

the four foot snow drift
cresting near the back of the trailer
along the propane tank
how juniper and i take photos
that look like us diving in
this is how wisconsin winter used to be
i say about the amounts of snow
and more on the way
_______
apple’s familiar
hint of drawl
coming in from the other end
of the line
_______

cat paw prints pressed
into the patches of snow
that have drifted

onto the porch

a voice asks

how i wouldn’t have seen the eagle
swooping just outside the trailer window
then resting in a stand
of oaks and birches
if it weren’t for the crows
cawing and cawing
_______
in the quick meditation
in the falling apart chair at thoreau house
a voice asks
so, how do you like your new family

the unbelievable lightness

a protest! i say with genuine enthusiasm
about the one man holding a sign on the corner
of main and jefferson that says
trump is the real emergency

and i wave to him
out the window before turning
at the intersection
_______

the unbelievable lightness
and fluff
of the snow i shovel
to clear the path to the birdfeeder
_______
the wild wind
ruffling the feathers
of the tufted titmouse
hunting for sunflower seeds
at the feeder
_______

something about what the chords
of peace train in six parts
does to me
a kind of lifting

cutting through the dark

shoveling out the garbage/recycling bins
and the car in the night
lightweight snow sparkling
like a good fake theater snow would
under stage lights
the quiet of snow plusĀ  night
stretching out around me
while the cat slinks under the car
and paws at snow edges
and in the distance, a clip-clopping
of what sounds like an amish buggy
cutting through the dark
_______
how i turn all the lights out
to sit in the rectangle of moonlight
glowing in through the skylight in the kitchen
we take turns bathing
in the moonglow