Blizzard
November2002
It started with rain. A cold freezing rain. Fast gone but generous, soaking all in its wake. I thought I could finish clearing the brush pile but no. Relentless it fell, big plinking drops, faster and faster until I was soaked. Then the wind came, twirling branches, moving limbs as if they were rubber. I know those trees. They are heavy and strong yet they bowed to the will of the wind. I hurried home.As I reached the mud room door, I finally heard it. That deep wooshing sound. That unrelentless roar of the winter wind playing with branches like music instruments. Like a train passing at great speed, the sound climbed up the hill, down the hollow through the grass, into the brushes and through my ears. I hear you, great arctic wind, racing through Canada, over the Great Lakes and down to my valley. Strange, I did not remember hearing that sound when I was living in the city. I forgot its cold music, its deep chilling harmony. The house shook. Pieces of trees clattered on the roof. As I closed the door I peeked outside. Instant white, sky, trees, ground and air. Every space filled with boiling, flying streaking flakes. Winter storm, blizzard.
Whooshing winds
December 2002
Whooshing winds make this old moon colder. It looks more like a frozen grin than the familiar smile, her face. Winter night is here. I cannot sleep with you staring at me like this. and not cloud in the sky to protect me from your curiosity. You come through the window like it was your house. Even when I roll the blinds down, you manage to peek inside. I can feel you. You disrupt my thought, change the balance of things. What are you calling me to see or do ? How can I assist you. My feet find the slippers on the floor, my hands the shirt laying on the cover, my body its vertical position. I'm up and moving to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. There you are… still looking at me. Seems to me you're smiling now. After all these years, I still fall for your pranks.
Cottony cold...
Cottony cold mist enveloped crystal covered trees, snow crunching under my feet, I walked through this ethereal world to get home. Four hours now, I measured the breadth and the width of this acreage. It has been here since creation. The trees, the rocks, the barn, the path look like they are friends, commonly united by this graceful terrain. A plot of land. Since we first met, last year, I yearned to be its custodian. No one can own it, really. It is too free to be owned. Sure, bankers gave me papers which state that it is mine. But it's just a visit, to tender it for a while. It will let me use its fields to work in, and then it will absorb me. Just as if I had never been there. I will be laid into it, six feet to be exact. And I too, will be part of the hill, the road, the field, enjoying the peace of it all. I thought of those who had crossed this path through the years: lonely pionners, warry soldiers, sturdy farmers, noble indians, commited mechanics, extatic lovers, enamoured loafers, free dreamers, baseball fans, kids sledding down the hill, foresters and squatters, wanderers and explorers, I saw them all and all were gone without a trace. So will I.