worsening weather —
I pull on one more layer
before heading out

puddles

are for stomping —

the toddler's creed

taking the tree down
we find a small empty nest —
one last ornament

(HT @elizabethharman)

Bananagrams rules —
my mother and I decide
every word counts

carrot ginger soup —
years from now he'll want this
when a cold's coming

backyard berries —
a flock of winter robins
strips the branches bare

obscuring fog —
we make our way home
with hands outstretched

noticing the twist
at the azalea's root —
dreaming in bonsai

no-fly zone —
we avoid talking about
Palestine again

dormant wisteria
now blooming
with juncos

(first posted over on SeasonWords.com)

secret ingredient —
the faint scent of orange zest
giving it away

first bird of the day
black-capped chickadee
tuning up its song

as I wake up
the white throated sparrow
informs me I'm late

all day long
every conversation
came back to the cold

ice-glazed snow
and the sound of the world
breaking underfoot

winter night —
in the children's bedrooms
a fierce hope for snow

no-fly zone —
we avoid talking about
Palestine again

ungovernable —
the last cricket sings away
in the basement

waxing crescent moon —
somehow more present
for being barely there

divorce stories
around the backyard fire pit —
my throat fills with smoke

fields given over
to wandering flood water —
our talk takes a turn

sending the kids off
with a bag full of trip snacks —
I am my mother

our son finds photos
from the early years —
"you were both so young!"

neighborhood chat —
the geese shout us down
from just overhead

we hurry outside —
remember how the snow
used to stay?

traveling through
a cloud of cosmic debris —
our boy explains meteors

faint scent of pine —
we leave the tree up
for one more night

dentist appointment —
a hole in my calendar
already

after the party
news of the unwanted gift —
we've all been exposed

nothing feels new —
I write in the old year
only to cross it out