What’s true?

When my sister-in-law came to visit, 

She asked if we could see the mountains, 

But the whole time she was here 

They were hidden behind the clouds. 

Now that she has left, of course, 

The mountain we see most has returned,

 So I sent this photo, taken this morning, 

Just to reassure her that it really does exist. 

But these days, now that so many photos lie, 

She’ll just have to trust that this one’s true.

Family values

Whether they are brothers or father and son, 

It always warms my heart to see them 

Caring for each other, unlike my cats, 

Who, though brother and sister, 

Never snuggle, and often fight.

More harbingers of winter

It happens every year at about this time: 

The sun, flourishing her ruffled skirts 

In her colorful nightly flamenco dance, 

Retreats once more behind the trees, 

Leaving us with only remnants, 

Frayed edges of the petticoats 

She once lifted so enticingly before us. 

If only we were not quite so far north, 

Or had chosen a home that faced 

A bit more west, we’d not be forced 

Into this annual separation.

Gray again

Gray again, and gray again, 

And now the days are gray again, 

But wet, at last, and not with fog, 

But rain at last, to still the fires 

And fill the lakes, 

And turn the dirt-brown lawns 

To green again, 

And so, again, the winter is icumin in, 

Tripping on the heels of fall, 

Whose colors, like the leaden sky 

 Are dulled into and lulled into 

 A monotonic state 

By all the dry.

Simple pleasures

Grateful for distraction 

From the troubles of the day, 

I’m drinking in the colors 

Of the cloud-dappled sky, 

Watching as the golden wisps 

Shade to pink before the darkness 

Steals all color from the canvas 

Laid before us.

Broken

I came to this green stream 

To be reminded of the unity: 

The lively spirit that flows through us all, 

Only to see that somehow it has come 

To divide us, a widening chasm, 

And all nature’s efforts to bridge; to reconnect 

Appear to have been broken. 

Poor Rudolph

The shoulds are rising up today, 

As in, I should be writing about the twin towers, 

Or the guy who died by one of those guns 

He thought everyone should carry, 

But instead I worry about this little guy: 

A yearling whose antlers are all kittywampus. 

How did it happen, and does it hurt? 

Will he be able to knock them off, and 

Will they grow back straight next spring? 

Do the other deer make fun of him? 

Do they laugh and call him names? 

Sad, isn’t it, how much easier it is 

To worry about the small stuff…