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,
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.
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.