Winter

a white sheepdog silently beckoning

calling his flock to follow

covering the blue sky and the summer sun

with the dingy gray of their wool

a gardener

blustering through clothed in gray and black

angry he still deals gently with his plants

giving each an icy coating

then forgets them

and brusquely

noisily

bitterly

leaves not returning forsaking them to their fate

a silent woman draped in chilling white

heavily burdened with her baskets of crushed ice

wielding her willow-bough broom

she brushes her burden across the streets and yards

smiling to see the children laugh and slide

she passes on

then comes the wind

from lonely icy planes she sweeps down

not understanding her own cruelty

even the sheep in the sky shiver at her

but I know she is waiting for me

to slip silently out of my prison

and come to her

to receive willing

the message of pain

she has brought:

for me,

there is no spring

(In defense of my teenaged self, please bear in mind that in Texas the first frost releases all the mountain cedar pollen, which made me sick. Constantly. It's hard to be cheerful when you spend most of the winter (and spring, and summer, and fall - I'm allergic to everything that grows in Texas) not being able to breathe)

Water Chant I

Frost sparkles on grass

earth is turned to steel.

The trees tremble, imprisoned in crystal.

Weeds slowly bend, hiding their faces for shame

that people strolling by should see

their yellowed stems against the white dirt.

Water stares at the sky which deals it death,

hurling bitter winds and chilling frost until the pool

lies

motionless

frozen in horror, gazing with leafy eyes

at the grey sun.

11/16/97

(I vaguely remember there being more Water Chants. I have no idea what happened to them...possibly retitled something else?)

Young believers passing by--

young believers passing by

the bloody emblem of our foes

strongly we led

bravely we die

the anxious dead

will not deny

us

they; the cause

they come behind

a silent mist of voices

the bodies lie where they are found

their spirits rise above the ground

to whisper forth: our liberty!

is worth all deaths and tears

is worth the ash-scarred sky

beyond the blackened trees

(I believe this is the result of reading John McCrae's poetry, a variety of nonfiction about world war II, and a bunch of dystopian science fiction concurrently. I don't recommend the mixture)

Isolation

raindrops click

from trees

onto the sodden ground

meowing quietly

a grey kitten passes

misty grey

rain-sky grey

upon the blueless lake

shimmers

the rain suddenly rushes

then returns

to its

dripping

refrain

9/12/98

Rustling--

Rustling

like rain on grass

the cottonwood dances

bows

in the wind.

laughing with the stormy sky

the horizon

darkening

softening

the whisper

of wind on the leaves remains.

Two Birds

Two birds

black shadows in the evening

swoop across the golden sky.

They alight on the telephone wires

and lightly touch

wings

beaks

bodies

then swirl away into the blazing sun.

Darker than dark--

Darker than dark

the incandescent rays lie humped and cold.

I crush them with my feet

and they pour out

                             (freely, unasked)

sticky globules of shining light.

2-18-2000

(no, I didn't write this after I stepped on a slug barefoot. Which, by the way, is an experience never to be forgotten)