I.
Sky spits snow I wave away, tired of the same old conversation.
II.
Patch of snow melt shows sweet brown dirt, where old sage bush whispers—Garden, grow.
Category Archives: Nature
American Sentences: February
Roses In Winter
When my world feels pinched
And dry, I look at the roses you sent.
They arrived like messengers
From a far-off country
With urgent news–
Two dozen sweetheart faces from dark red
To pale pink, yellow, orange, peach,
And a soft cream the color
of vanilla and old lace.
Every time I see them,
Relaxed and blooming now that
All their traveling is done
Their soft faces urge me
To take a deep breath and remember
I can relax and bloom too
Having read their message:
There are places in the world where beauty grows
Even now, in the middle of winter.
Snowstorm Saturday
Still snowing, but my closest neighbor
inside his homemade red and green shack
built on top of his tractor
is plowing his driveway already,
his tiny house protecting him from the wind.
He’s retired now and so has time
to turn his inspirations
into inventions.
All up and down my road,
I can hear the low-roar symphony
of snow blowers. And I’ve got to get out there myself
because I love to shovel snow without any motor at all.
But also, if I don’t hurry, my neighbor and his house
will clear my sidewalk and free my car
And because we’ve been here, side by side, a very long time,
I know he’ll be sitting inside his invention
shaking his head at my indolence
when he sees me through the front window
sipping my coffee, writing away.
And I want to shout Hey, I’m inventing here.
But he’d explain in his fatherly voice,
words on paper don’t count
when there’s snow to be cleared,
and so much practical work to be done.
Red Sky At Night
Red sky at night
may be sailor’s delight,
but that old poem
fell apart this morning.
The sky is streaked hot pink
Its only warning to sailors is:
Look Out–
This is a day designed
for nine-year-old girls
who giggle.
Practicing Winter
This early in the season
it’s still all practice.
World runs through its moves
like memorizing flash cards or scales.
This is how snow sits in
a field of corn stubble,
pockmarked little faces.
This is how it falls
straight down, silent—
Remember the hint is the word “blanket”
for sidewalks and flat suburban lawns.
Trees? Pay attention.
You’re always drifting off
when you’re the most rooted of all.
Stop dreaming of bird’s nests and concentrate
on holding still for that one perfect line of
snow on every twig.
Apple tree, the way you shape that drift
in the curve of your branch
so it looks like a heart
is perfect. We’re ready
for opening night.
Snowstorm
The sky brightened to steady grey
showing the swells and ridges of snow that fell,
the world busily churning it from the air while we slept.
Now, just rest. Breathe and look out the window
at this passing moment. Snow stopped falling
an hour ago.
Now, you try. See how quiet
Now, before anyone else wakes and we
hurry to match the world’s efforts by
making breakfast and mistakes and covering
them all with flurries of snow and words.
Meteorologists
In careful suits, with shinyholiday ties,
they point to maps and frown,
deeply serious as they
caution us to stock up
on candles and flashlight batteries
and avoid unnecessary travel.
But it’s no use. The disguise always slips.
Beneath forecasts full of warnings
they can’t hide
their excited voices, the eager faces
of nine-year-old boys
primed for a snow day,
ready to be amazed by weather.
The Crowd Goes Wild
All last night,rain didn’t so much fall
as dash itself against the world,
thick and fast,
the way the sound of a few people clapping
builds to an audience ringing with applause.
Something about a rainy night
when we’re at home
tucked into beds
with books to read–
I feel clever
and prosperous, to have landed
us here, in lives so warm
and well-fed, with such thick blankets and soft pillows,
double-hung windows and Christmas lights.
Even the cat is comfortable.
For a few minutes, on the edge of sleep,
I feel like all that applause is for
what a good job I’ve done.
Be Calm Before
The Eastern Seaboard holds its breath.
For once, we can each see the face
of the disaster that always hovers, breathing
just out of sight.
Scramble to gather what you need:
Candles and chocolate,
Friends and flashlights,
Batteries, wading boots.
Water turns my thoughts all Biblical:
Noah, floods, Jesus gliding through waves.
There’s a message I finally get(I think),
2,000 years late:
Walking across the stormy lake,
Saying Calm, calm
to the panicked friends in the fishing boat,
You were practical as ever:
Breathe and walk, You said,
Breathe and walk through all the ways the world
smashes into you.
Be calm in the face of this world’s tangled eye.
Calm before the storm
is advice,
not a weather forecast.
This is how to walk on water.
If He Only Had A Brain
There’s a blue jay in love
on our front porch.
Bold as a boy full of beer,
handsome and muscled and perfectly sure of himself,
he swoops, lands on the grapevine wreath and
pecks at silk leaves, raffia ties,
the scarecrow’s felt hat.
Neither the bird nor the scarecrow know any better
and there’s an analogy here
about love or not judging by appearance
or using your head
But—
This is one contented scarecrow.
He will never
dance off in search of adventure.
There are millions of ways to smile.
Here’s one: To bask in autumn sun,
perched on a wreath,
kissed by a blue jay
right on your soft canvas face.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 