This poem was written on the heels of finishing "Hwy 20, Fall Orchard", sometime when words finally came for this particular work:

A Winter Still

It is a winter still

the glare, the white of grief

caught in a shuddering squint.

Everyday the tight words are the same

punctuated loneliness.

a terseness bracketed by

lifted bare branches,

silent watchers at our wake.

No movement

unless you count the merry-go-round

revolving the solitary figure,

his steam ringing above.

Like a toy train

going, coming, going;

if coming is bookended by going there is no coming,

just a cycle of leaving

and a haloing breath.

A quiet tick

a distant station clock

a tock

indicating the unmentionable.

Hope, that's all it will take

a slight shifting wind and

the ring will break

down, dawning in blossoms

the petals

drifting here and there in spirited wind

and green will roar

smearing all across

and oh, the words, so many words will tumble forth

as unstoppable as the weeds and the vines and grasses in a year of rain.

No pattern

unless you can trace the recklessness of

our careening, our inhalations coming raggedly

and sharp with the joy

of spring's arrival

and this winter will be still.