The 6 a.m. January
in a waxy gray putty
whizzing by with spots
of luminous silvery
coming through, an eerie
like an old movie.
Do I really have to go out there?
Now a hint of muted
salmon tones breaking
a warmish band
of welcoming pinkish light.
Is it like this every morning?
My head still in the dark.
Worry, eck! But the brightening
russet-tipped cloud ballet
reminds me of something
in Pliny, yea, Pliny.
Can’t imagine opening
the door today in a toga.
Work and more,
sends us into the draft.
Last Century Thoughts in Snow Tonight
This is winter where light flits at the tips of things.
Sometimes I flit back and glitter.
Too much spectacle conquers the I.
This is winter where I walk out underneath it all.
What could I take from it? Astonishment?
I wore an extra blanket.
This is winter where childhood lanterns skate in the distance
where what we take is what we are given.
Some call it self-reliance. Ça va?
To understand our portion, our bright portion.
This is winter and this the winter portion
of self-reliance and last century thoughts in snow.
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