In the barren beauty of the bog
life stirs
beneath the silver frozenness
spring's warmth is waiting
to melt and caress
the earth's stubby face.
In the forest the trees blush
red, then lime green with new
shoots tender and translucent;
the birds return with songs
bursting in their breasts,
and nesting materials in their beaks,
and eggs warm in the nest.
Ancient dreams
ancient bones
old stones
forgotten memories
linger in the mist
wafting through the trees
reaching through the ages
to tickle our brains
with questions
and musings
and curiosity
until the stories pile
bone on bone or
stone on stone
and an image is formed
of what was,
what is, and
what will be.
In the backyard the rain
pounding forms a small pond
up against the iceberg
formed by the last snow storms,
dirty snow piled high
pushed away so one can enter
this backyard landscape, a miniature version
of this wide snowy world
in transition.
Soon the crocus will bloom in the front yard.
Soon, soon.
The sun shone today.
It glistened and sparkled on the snow.
The wind blew cold upon me
And I felt trapped.
No longer does the beauty
Of this place touch me
The isolation has become a trap.
I feel that I must flee, but,
Where to?
What do I want?
Where is the place
That I can call Home?