Song for Heidi
Can you hear snow flakes
turn and sift towards
the ground,
still white flecks speak with
ease, crystal packets
of secret fluff
cold cotton whispers
soft, becomes
meltwater,
too brief aloft we
disappear like
white trails
in this rare
quiet,
shall we drift or ford sky’s
swift current, traverse life's
blue river, sing brave and
wild all way
down?
The Square in Snow
tin tempts the metal smith
towards sculpture she does
not yet know, snowflakes
sing a muffled tune as dawn
yawns open its sleepy pink
semi-gorgeous mouth,
accordion music like a stream
flushes cobbled streets fresh
and clean, this crisp breeze
is blessed and old men
hold calloused hands
to stroll
no one is here alone despite
the freezing pristine
whiteness of new snow,
and the statue of shiny tin
elegant in the quiet square,
stands robust faces us
like our recent dream
bundled warm
in this unremitting
cold.
The health of all creatures is never a given,
the grimace today at a pinch in the groin
may in several months grow into cancer,
out in my backyard a plastic garbage can lid
is filled with last week’s rainwater, I watch a
small miracle of life as skinny pink worms
emerge into this world and then swim twist
and slither in silence elastic,
and in
swivels in ergonomic chairs paid for by us the
too patient populace, these quite well insured
in their eight hundred dollar suits twist the truth
and ignore the needs of millions of people as
they squirm and lie like vermin in a garbage
heap of gavels, snake behind shut oaken doors
to deliver the news (that’s not new at all) that
we must fend for ourselves like the earthworms
out back
in this life and death matter of sickness and health,
their unfeeling edict stridently shouts, drowns out
other voices of compassion and reason so money
alone may give each fragile person the true sacred
choice for life’s sweet water of health when
illness and pain knock on our doors as surely they
shall like flesh colored worms in tepid rainwater.
The faintest scent of snickerdoodles,
(just their name brings a grin)
these hot cinnamon tinged circular
confections just baked by mom
today sings, no shouts, my hungry
name as I burst through the back
screen door into the kitchen's
seductive magic where a small boy's
strong thirst for love is through sweet
treats at least partly sated.
Rain screams towards earth, her sixth bad dream of the month wakes us both, a wild wind shakes the porch, it’s an angry unfed visitor wired like a bobcat in late July, scrawny and ever vigilant for strips, such thin scraps of flesh or mere attention, it knows in its cold bones affection is out of the question. Weather never cares whether anyone ever arrives home through dark reflecting streets to the fireplace, cozy thick quilt, the unasked expectancies.
where is the burnished coin,
ancient yet priceless in its
simple pure roundness, now
that the rain is not pounding
groundward?
