No weather lasts forever.

Even this craziness, this winter

that doesn’t want to end. 


The sun is still up there,

above the heavy clouds.

There are currants driving the winds.


The blackbirds have returned

and are searching for seeds

and the robins have found the sumac.


It is our grandson’s third birthday.

He talks all the time;

he’s trying to read.


Our granddaughter will be one

two days from now. She

is walking, and working on words.


Small plants, lettuces and pansies,

are growing in greenhouses

and the farmers are potting up tomatoes.


My nephew is feeding his chickens

and gathering the eggs.

There are new black calves in the pasture.


Sometimes I can believe

that the world doesn’t matter, 

that what matters is the earth,


and the people who do good work

every day, who walk their dogs

and love their friends.


Winter Prompt #30: View from the Top



From here, the garden:

four stiff stalks of kale,

black leaves folded frozen.

Snow halfway up the rabbit fence.

The old wooden gate to the compost,

center brace broken,

its screen torn and propped till spring.

Will there be spring?

Two spiral stakes mark volunteer

asparagus, one marks the long bed

where under snow and straw

the garlic sets its roots.




Once I read Latin, long phrases from Caesar and Virgil.

Now I practice Polish, but only after dark.


Once I played the piano: Mozart, Debussy, Bach.

Now I play simplified Gershwin songs when no one is around.


Once I had a small vegetable garden.

Now it is a jungle of vines and weeds.


Once I fell in love with a warrior.

Some things never change.


Once there was no space for anything.

Now time stretches before me like the sea.



If the door has blown closed, open it.

You do not need a key.

Feed the birds.

There is seed in the blue jar.


Pick the apples, eat the cherries.

Make wine from the grapes.

Do not eat the yellow pears

for they are bitter.


The garden is full

of deep green weeds.

Cook them in oil.

They will make you strong.


When dew shines on the leaves

go out and wet your feet.

The copper basin holds rainwater

to wash your hair.


Milk the goats

at sunrise and sunset.

Drink what you like

and make the cheese.


The dogs will kiss

you awake.

The cats will sing

you to sleep.


They will tell you

what they wish to eat.

They will tell you

what to dream.


At midnight,

the owls will come.

The great gray owl

will speak. Listen.

April prompt #32

April prompt #32


Ray’s #5


I know what is going on below the surface:

white violets make seeds underground. No

matter what I do, come spring, they will emerge.

Dandelions send down roots in every crack.

Nettles knot their webs beneath the mulch, creeping

Jenny creeps around the stones. Gray dogwood

ducks under the fence. Temper, temper! I

have seen so many springs. Weeds know how to

live better than anything I desire.

Is it possible that anything will change?

April prompt #15

April prompt #15

Write a poem that doesn’t make any sense (non-sequitors, nonsense, stream of consciousness)

then, rewrite the poem to make sense of it.

Kari’s #2


Thanks a bunch, Kari.  Just what I need —to focus

on the mess in my head. Grandson with croup,

no birthday party tomorrow, postponed.

Find somebody who can use the wait do

I want to spread manure today and why

is he crabby already I know it’s

not anything and I’m almost out of

birdseed but the bears and the sun is shinging

just keep the fingers moving on the keyboard

looking out the window at the light a

good day out there but i should edge the flower

beds and have to write this poem before I

do aything but it’s okay cause it’s

cold outside and I’d reather work in the

sunlight why does it make me so mad to

read other people’s arguments on face-

book and why do I even bother I

wanted to see that opera but it wans’t

meant to be and now I can rescheudle

that coffee so that’s a good thing I ought

to go up to rt.7 and check out the

restaurant but I don’t want to do that

today because i need to get my hadns

int the dirk why is my keyboard doing t

his weire thing with ys and spaces probably

because I rest my hands too low and they hti

the and anyway I need to get a

drink of water or maybe acoffee

but it’s too early I’ve run out of stream.

is my brain settling in? who knows.

Does it ever?





Sunshine, no wind. Goldfinches

coming to finish the last of the seed.


Time to put my fingers down into the dirt,

time to clear out the debris of winter,


sticks and dead leaves, all the scattered

hulls of things. I will have earth


under my nails again, for my peace.

Last year, this day, I had no peace. My heart


ached with the grandchild aching

to be born, his mother laboring.


Waiting with my son at the lip

of change. It happened.


It was well. And through

the space of loving, I am free.