Life With Horace

poetry & essays

Category Archives: shortlings


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looking through

the apple tree has given up its leaves
sightlines to the treescape skyline
of the mountain ridge are visible again
skeleton beauty skirting stripped down
lilac oak and beech, embracing stolid
pine arms, needles feathering
this morning’s straggler sun
a wedge of brown and gray and light
this small world peaceful
waiting for the snow

__________________________
this is one of those mornings when the contrast between the world outside my kitchen window and places of violence and sorrow is very stark. I am grateful for this peace, even as I mourn another shattered night and pray for France.


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any minute

the woods are almost
ready to go boom
and scatter green,
banishing the sight
of humus steeping gently
by our stream and up the slopes,
waving in (come right this way!)
the aftermath of ferny clumps,
slim wildflower tips,
red rhubarb nubs
to join (departing) snowdrops,
or cocoons of daffy yellow
still mostly closed
here in the north.
I shiver as the rising sun
floats by my skin and heats
the green fluorescent
that has taken much too long
to beat the cold and
shine full force.
spring is on approach
and I am ready

____________________________
a poem for Earth Day and NaPoWriMo 2015 day 22.


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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!


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sleeping in moonglow

a whole moon
shrinking
without stark relief
or angles
perhaps hanging
in a mist I cannot see
its clear light
muted and opaque
entering my room
by stealth
air brushing
walls and shapes
and sets them floating
in the glow
along with me

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a shortling, about the moonlight that found every corner of my room last night. it was so different, I couldn’t help but notice.


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as the day appears

out the kitchen window
tree shapes firming
into open sky, no clouds,
no stars either when I woke,
odd perhaps, but then it is
September, morning mist
that snakes through lip and rift
of mountain arms we sit below.
no birds yet, they are coming,
morning racers like my neighbors
on their way to work, engines
smoothly powering along,
except for one white truck,
rough run noise his signature,
not quite glass pack,
loving laying rubber
when he knows I’ll hear,
turning to the town and work,
the squeal is saved for later
and a certain audience.
I am grateful,
smiling.


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light at an angle

it is a gift I take for granted
with no remorse or hesitation,
as it is given freely
to any open eye.
angled early light,
shadows cast ahead of its arrival,
backlighting leaves and shapes,
opaque and glowing
slanted blades cut through
the woods filled up with morning haze
left over from a night of rain,
all seen in passing
on a backwoods shortcut road,
chosen not for haste but beauty,
and the joy I feel
when passing by

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I am a light addict. once I learned to see light, not just crave it, my view of the world changed forever. for Jon Katz as he heals. his vision has opened many eyes.