Snow falls
like the first snow,
   silently.
The air is close.
A stand of
skeleton trees --
brances adorned
with white.
A snowflake
   touches
my cheek:
cold kisses from
a cold Romance.
Snow falls...

And now the sacred  
season comes;
pine boughs hang
   heavy
with the snow.
Holly brightens
the winter scene
and mistletoe hints
at a more ancient
   celebration.
Candles light the
frosty windows --
weary travelers
hurry home.
On this most holy
    night
a babe was born
(witnessed by a
   star) --
bearing the angel's
  adoration.
Lo, the baby is
   sleeping;
Alleluia, the angels
are singing.
Peace on earth,
peace on earth!
And now the sacred
season comes...

In the thicket
is the sparrow,
darting here,
darting there,
all today
and tomorrow.
In the thicket
where wild roses
once bloomed
so brightly,
little sparrow
know this well.

The way the sun
is coming up over the city
is big and yellow
   and vapid.
The city shimmers;
streets of diamond-dust.
(Wings flutter,
   angel wings).
Glass pyramids
glisten on the back
of the sleeping serpent
that sprawls along
the water's edge.

Cities shrug
by safe harbors
   or not;
laundry hanging
on a line --
each moment
caught in time
by pen in hand.
Beauty flirtatious,
glances at the beast --
yet, there is
the uncommon beauty
languidly battling
the ardent pursuer;
(tangerine lips),
a bed of blossoms.
There is the invisible
   woman
shallow  beyond
   the bone.
This, too, caught
by pen in hand.

At once, political
   fanfare --
who's running the world
   and why?
Revolution's heroes
and the first small step,
later enduring
and correct.
A dear friend, from
childhood, seen,
'Ti-jean with his
plaid shirt and
   merere.
This all caught
by pen in hand.

The two old loves
yearning for green
   meadows,
lie down by weeds
   and tracks
as if in graves.
But, why not stave off
the hands of fate?
Love lingers long
if it is true.
And last of all, yes,
perhaps happier than
   the rest,
a little woman --
tame bird in hand:
no truer friend.
This, too, caught by
pen in hand.

Sitting in the kitchen
eating oranges,
the moon so bright
the garden is made
   of shadows.
Cat rubs against
my leg, as if
to say "Go to bed,
put the day away."
I think about life's
twists and turns --
perhaps that is the mystery.
The goddess shines
   bright, eternally --
just beyond the open
   door.
Crickets sleep
bathed in silver and quiet now.
Cat slowly slides
across the kitchen floor.
How can I have gotten
   this far?
Weathered all
the twists and turns --
that mystery so slow
   to unravel.
A feline stretch high
upon the screen-door.
Cat wants to climb
   to the moon.

A lonely god
sits and waits
for dust
to rise like
   smoke.
A weaver threads
his loom of life
with spun gold:
a glorious
   display --
a sower strews
his seeds by hand;
mother earth lets them
   take root.
The phoenix rises
from the ash,
   all aflame
and feathers red.
And still the
lonely god does wait
for breath to take
and keep him
   company.