Lake Ice

a steadying hand

will only prevent falling

not falling through

two feet of snow —

the squirrels scold each other

for starting so late

footprints in the snow —

the front yard bunny

was here first again

the snow’s crust

no longer supporting

our dreams

when I come out

I cloak my tale in laughter —

clouds hiding the moon

dreary morning —

the sun can’t figure out

which way is up

circling ducks

keeping a piece of lake

unfrozen

appreciating

this particular star’s bounce

off the moon, off snow...

creating kingdoms —

in the midst of shoveling 

he builds a snow throne

looking up numbers

of all the old friends I know

will be home today

silence

falling steadily

with the snow

milk and eggs —

everyone following

the same pre-storm urge

visible planets —

I hear my old art teacher:

fill the whole page!

morning glare —

stopping to scrape the windshield

a second time

so busy looking

for the black ice they warned of —

I forget the moon

fresh wet snow

changing every sign

to “yield”

a narrowing space

between frozen earth and sky —

hospice visit

a new crop of rocks

in the field we cleared last year —

work begins again

late night sky —

reaching back to remember

the names of stars

all day at work

we share our yearning to quit —

powerball jackpot

throwing away yeast

for the bread I never made —

an old girlfriend calls

now that they’re frozen

we rediscover puddles —

still good for stomping

in the all-day rain

thoughts of you welling up  —

the sump pump kicks on

still turning away

from the goose I saw today

dragging a wing

first date —

the sweet hesitancy

of sight-reading

one box of crayons

and suddenly here we are

our eight year-old selves

gloved hands

and the struggle

to still feel the world

front yard bunny,

the fact that I could see you

was my proof of morning

teenage ritual —

into the frozen morning

without his coat

It was a poem.

How can I tell? Because now...

I yearn to re-read.

(Today's haiku is dedicated to magic-maker @stacyannchin, writer & performer of Motherstruck at the Lynn Redgrave theater in NYC.)

cold night air

seeming to gather and roll —

we quicken our steps

our friends’ dog

lying under the table

teaching about hope