Sitting on a park bench
my feet hover

over the lush green grass
above the earth

and sometimes
above the fray

a small Christmas tree
with tinsel and ornaments
dangling from its branches

grows out of our living room
floor

what was once dead
now lives again

outside the morning fog
burned off

the sky is now
a baby blue

you may be down
but you are never out

we will survive
by reading and following
the directions

keeping our brushes
clean

and never
letting the paint dry

Whit Howland © 2019

If you love cats

you’ll get lost
in the heaving

half- moon
that whistles from its nose
at the end of your couch

you’ve grown on me

your rhythm music
now

so near and dear

to my heart

Whit Howland © 2019

Damage or
enlightenment

depends
on how you parse it

it was done
the work the deed

I could not go back
the food

the thought
the song

too sweet

Whit Howland © 2019

With blind
trust

as though
through the Chunnel

under the English Channel
we will travel in darkness

to greet
the new year

meet
and pump the hand
of fate


and it will seem
as normal as the day

before
more of the same

jokes songs
and stories

but there will
be a feeling that
we cannot shake

a momentum
pulling us forward
causing us

to look one last time
and salute all the things
that served us well

then bob for other apples
and trust
they’re more juicy crisp and new

Whit Howland © 2019

Snow still lingers
it is cold

and I’ve grown
accustomed to it

and the pit
or stone

my heart has become

I held on
as long as I could

to kindness compassion
and forgiveness

but finally
Winter’s icy fingers

pried those warm  
human gifts

from my grip
and

put them someplace
cold just

slightly
out of reach

Whit Howland © 2019

A hearth fire crackles
that is how I know
I’m not alone

because

the log glows bright
with warmth

that flows through the room

it’s that warm cheer
that makes me know

you are near
and that's because

you’ve never been far
this I know

something I’m positive

is true

Whit Howland © 2019

I woke up

this morning and saw you
brushing your hair in the mirror

I asked you if it’s Sunday
you said yes

I feel we’ve been here before
and like a revolving door

we have the same conversation
at different times
and in different places

the words and music
so familiar to my ear

as we continue
to turn

and reset the earth like a clock

Whit Howland © 2019