Hardly enough snow
to call it Winter

but dustings here
and there

made islands
in thought

which heightened our
awareness

and augmented our
quest

for a warm touch

and a personal
connection

Whit Howland © 2020

In the mind it still
rusts

the metal skeleton
of my youth

as I plunge
again and again
into memories

with images
flashing
behind my eyes

and I struggle
only to remember

the good stuff


Whit Howland © 2020

In days to come

they'll turn to *****
mounds

on the sidewalks
and patches of scraggly
grass

Spring is near

ugly before beauty
then ugly again


Whit Howland © 2020

I mean if it were metal
it would rust

but it's plastic so the snow won't
hurt it

with that in mind what does
it mean

and I'm not writing to you
to say nothing

I've cashed those chips in
long ago

we've captured something
a moment a scene
could it be just

a part
to a bigger whole

the snow is getting deeper
the box

harder to see

in a minute or two
we'll have nothing

but  a stupid
conundrum

that's better than something

isn't it

Whit Howland © 2020

bottles the essence
of them

the texture of wavy glass
with pits

and scattered bubbles
of air

intended
to slap the face

break the cycle
and pry us
from this loop

and move the ball
down the field

Whit Howland © 2020

these big flakes
reminding me of
soap

no longer the frozen
powder of before

but sudsy
foamy
slushy stuff

for the simple work of
scrubbing

rinsing
and drying

nothing deep
or to see here

it's just the mind
checking off items

on a to-do list

Whit Howland © 2020