still the old pull,

fifteen calendars later —

her missing mother

(for TK, MKD, and other folks missing loved ones tonight)

winter layers —

behind the stars

more stars

again and again

the water comes back to stand

in the old places

their big girl’s birthday —

my parents tell baby stories

one more time

winter night —

all through the house the whisper

of pages turning

a promise to help

followed by the knowledge —

some things can’t be helped

(for you, SM)

on top of the tree —

the memory of the star

we lost in the flood

slow down enough and

we can see individual

snowflakes as they fall

imagining

all of today’s rain

as snow

early thaw —

the front yard bunny’s hop

has an extra spring

feeling sure at last

that the tide is coming in —

the longest night

making up the beds,

preparing for the solstice...

we switch to flannel

midwinter quiet —

no one misses

the mosquitos

my thoughts

with the travelers

on the snowy road

tonight’s moon

so full it seems almost

ready to divide

seeing it at last —

my profile in my son’s

as he stands to sing

starting at the ends

we work towards each other —

driveway shoveling

ice on the world

the shimmer and shine of it

beautiful danger

mid-December light —

the frayed edges of our days

as they grow shorter

just below the dam

the last unfrozen water

gathering geese

snow on the dogwood
glimpsed for just a moment
mistaken for blossoms

all day we carry

the feeling of the slow glide

before the crash

(for N.D., who thankfully didn’t crash after all)

temporary thaw —

the sound of ice releasing

its grip on the roof

the pent up pressure

of tears held forcibly back —

winter gratitude

warming my fingers

by turning biscotti —

early December

late night rain storm —

each puddle its own little

chorus of welcome

the whole line of us
ensnared by morning fog
no longer struggling

a raccoon

stopped forever by the road

graceful even now

a pair of blue gloves

still in your coat pockets

from our last winter

he somehow misses

the every-night lullabye —

back to square one

the beautiful arc

of my sister’s unwanted

pie crust

a walk by our creek

after Thanksgiving dinner —

the ice just starting

Black Friday —

moving aside to let

an ambulance scream by

even in the dark

the geese calling out

as they fly over

I spread my fingers

wide to catch a falling leaf

but it slides on through

rainsong on the roof

and then the answering growl

of the basement pump

one feather —

slowing down the day with

its iridescence

heat inside and out —

a cup of hot chocolate

after the bonfire

just enough

to see the dark shapes of trees —

November moonlight

wheelie practice —

my job is telling him

how much air he gets

colder mornings —

the wrens surprised to see me

in the back yard

the sweet shock of warmth

in the midst of a cold night —

her kiss

(From Flickr, used via Creative Commons)

our morning test prep —

we head down to the bridge and

skip stones together

(in honor of C.D., on her birthday)

late-in-life swimmer —
so proud
of my flip turns

(image used via CreativeCommons)

brimming excitement —

we stand outside in our socks

to see the moon ring  

toasting pumpkin seeds

and remembering the friend

who taught me this trick

autumn winds —

amidst the clouds a glimpse

of the near-full moon

November nights —

suddenly the cold knows how

to pick any lock

braced against the cold

and feeling, all day,

driven on the wind

smiling

into my pillow

at the scent of snow

glimpse of the future —

he stands on the first step for

my welcome home hug

no less beautiful
for having been dropped to earth —
still-bright leaves

November dusk —
our candles seeming brighter
by the minute

one chasing squirrel
just a tail's length 
behind the other

brown sugar

melting into oatmeal —

magic every time

pumpkin carving —

in every kitchen

an anxious mother

so close overhead

I can hear their wings —

November geese

looking for socks,

feeling a yawn coming on —

shorter days

Quaker meeting —

this morning’s messages

from the year’s first fire

exclaiming over

the ladybug until we

lose it in the sun

gone before

we can even describe it —

late night fog

on my front stoop

sizing each other up —

two little Batmen

tucked under covers,

feeling a kind of kinship

with the potatoes

the oldest cricket

tells of a long ago storm —

no one believes her

the sweep of its wings

wider even than our gasps —

bald eagle

unsure of ourselves

we check our locks, our pockets —

while the earth waits

early leaf raking —

I try not to look up at

the ones yet to fall

slowing down

to savor the almost-end

of my paperback

over and over
my only thought the next hold
as I reach for it

(Dedicated to Veterans Expeditions (@vetexpeditions)

the baby book we hid

to avoid reading it

for the thousandth time

shorter days —

she calls to ask again

when we might visit