morning light in eyes
beams peek past the window edge
a friend has returned
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this morning the sun returned from its winter sojourn away from my window, continuing the slow dance from solstice to equinox, right to left. shining across the bed and into my eyes. a welcome thing in the pit of winter.
snowfall perfection
singular joins the many
floating from the sky
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saturdays mean one can exhale. today there are no chores or projects in an old house always in need. today will be spent with friends, mingling our joyous and foolish dogs, and gathering for a meal. there will be much laughter. the mind will stretch. a gift.
I stand quite still snared by unaccustomed silence
backlit in a pool of warmth and kitchen candle light
looking out at darkness intimate in thick falling snow
soundproofing all that lies beyond its edge
until a car appears creeping down the mountain arm
headlights poking through lace curtain flakes
wheels soundless on the road deeply masked by white
a traveler almost surely blind
determination understood and much admired by me
we share this moment and our quiet space
until my door is shut again and he has passed us by
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The world is well lost and soundless when it snows here. Like an infant’s view of life our boundaries shrink for a bit.
this morning life rose earlier
by minutes that felt wider
accordioning out the day,
winter’s pearl blue light
cut by blades of gold
cast from the ridge
revealed the snow well broken in,
squirrel byways clearly marked
seed leavings on white crests,
starter crystal stalactites
lipped from the roof,
evidence of romping dogs
mouse tracks
and my own red squirrel visitor
in a quiet moment
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immediate snow is always special, but some time out from its fall the evidence of life outside the house reveals itself.
chords reach in with certainty
fingering my waiting bones
sometimes as undulating touch,
wispy fog that knows no barriers
gently casual hands on shoulders
arms outstretched announcing their intentions
patient for response.
then there are other passages of notes
roaring by on chariots of glory,
powerful as basso lama horns
thrumming from dharamsala
straight to the chambers of my soul,
until waves of tears
escape to fold me into beauty,
ebbing only slowly,
limpet companions to the day
Life With Horace 