~

~

From the open window I hear
the metallic guttural cry of
elk bugling in the back yard

descending on around so near my home
covertly in the black and cold
of this arduous night

tell tale signs of
snow in higher grounds rousing bulls to
drive their herds down

and on the roof above me
continued heavy tapping of the last of
swollen beads of rain

as the temperature continues to fall
and I await the ensuing silence
telling me in the wordless way

it has all turned to snow

even down here
Down here at nearly
ten thousand feet high.

~

~

And the poem I so labored
is no longer valid

No longer matters
No matter works

about the graying sky and stripped leaves and
the last of the golden ground

But I wanted to write it, to
share it, to help you see it, and
Now I wake to a whiter world

and wonder what part of it matters
What part of it did I think you’d like
Would you want to hear and see

The picture I was painting for you in words
And what part of it can I
crumple and use to start

the morning fire
while I sit before the flames
coffee cup in hand

watching the steam rise
and words burn.

~

~

abandoned branches
bequeathed bare
suddenly slender nimble fingers
orchestrating a secret song in the wind
luring in the long winter

and the golden
leaves are pressed back
into the earth from which they once were born
seeds to bloom again
next summer

~

~