Life With Horace

poetry & essays

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night silence

in this old house
the winter night
is many things
but not deep quiet
never utter stillness
both conceits of
humans in retreat
with us at rest
it moves and breathes
in darkness
sighing wood and stone
the whine and snore of dogs
feet twitching gently
as they dream
small colonies of mice
sensed more than heard
remnant memories
within its walls
merge with the energy
of word and color
line and shape
collected and held close
to make this much loved place
and so I head for bed
the last light gone
leaving the plants looking out
at the night
to watch the snow fall


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speaking of gratitude

in early morning dark
approaching solstice,
thoughts clearing slowly,
a morning mist, awareness
spurs coherent thought
of thanks
for yet another day
to find myself alive,
no matter winter ice,
thoughts left over
and undone tasks,
certain that
joy will always rise
behind the pines
with the sun if asked,
serenity will be granted
if prayed for, even in
an unexpected form,
and now, prepared,
my soul is glad
to greet the sun

this morning’s freezing rain reminds me to be grateful nevertheless, a bit perverse I suppose. the roosting birds to the left are mourning/morning doves. 18 days to the solstice!