Life With Horace

poetry & essays



outside my door the guard has changed
a day of wet and gloomy gray
whisked off by racing clouds
abdicated winter steps in minuet retreat
the sullen blue gray glow of rained on slate
is caught by short lived slants of morning sun
and wind, a small all-hands treetop voice
is loath to roar (for now)
the dripping cloak that wraps this house
begins to dry and shed small gleams
the morning raven fly by
lacking winter urgency
green daffy blades push up
brash in return, migrating from the soil
no longer threatened accidents
almost time to prune and clear a way
for the celadon and smell of spring

I’m mindful that March in New Hampshire is fickle, and for a good long while snow will be a possibility. the path to spring is never straight up here.

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a haiku for ravens

thuggish calls in flight
swift and dangerous patrols
small creatures tremble

we have ravens here, not crows. they rumble through, sweeping over the arm of Monadnock, always on the lookout. our feeders are sheltered in the lea of lilacs, canopied by a long suffering apple tree. when the ravens come, our small birds and chipmunks hesitate but do not run.