FOR    SEASONS​

W i n t e r - F o o t h o l es

​Never mind counting
The grains of sand on a distant beach,
How many flakes of snow did it take
To raise the horizon, in one silent night,
Halfway up the cottage kitchen windows,
Framing the silled, discount poinsettia
On a purest white canvas.

After I open the draft-ridden door,
Shovel aside, with paced strokes,
The feather bed of first-fall
I will hoist the compost pail, and
Gloved and mukluked
Puncture a track across winter’s skin.
Tip the rotting fruits from warmer climes
Into the squat, black plastic,
council-sanctioned compositor.
 
Returning, slightly quicker this time,
Along my own footholes
Hemmed by the slurred steps
Of the night’s trio of deer,
 a Hungered trinity, making their rounds
Beneath the late-night northern lights.


​

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A  Glimpse  of  the  Future

You're the ghost in my bathtub
You're a ghost in my bed
You're a ghost at my kitchen table
Where once we broke bread

You're the ghost at my front door
That comes in then goes out
You're a ghost that once was flesh
I could wrap my arms about. 

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