valentine sugar

stepping out under the sky
on the morning of loves noticing
(as if only this day is)
out of nowhere from winter's den
the sun is a warming stream
of valentine gold, slathered torrid
all over this banquet of snow.

last night
a team of only ten degrees cracked their wind whip
now my front door is a narnian wardrobe
i step through
immediately too hot in my jacket,
ratcheted to stillness two strides out the door -
listen....
the hunkered ice beasts
two months worth of stubborn
and tearing the snug off the roof,
are trinkling and lithe,
dripping songs into the gutter
which my ears barely believe
orpheus' xylophone ballad
sound balm of liquid water moving
through such long white expanse of ice
almost as heady
as the newly arrived mud patch,
two palms worth of wet earth
smelling like everything it is possible to miss.

the maple trees stretch and pulse
their sweet antifreeze jostling up
pushing last night's dream skinward
(i walked through all our woods touching trees
each of them with holes of fountaining sap)
so today is the obvious morning
to tip tap the old metal spouts
just like generations
of bright tired new england farmers
sliding on sled runners behind heaving horses
to bring that sugared blood home.

let's seize this february thaw moment
and boil the ice right out of it
until all that is left is a jar of simple riches.
we know
the fierce fight of february will return
but for a moment, agape thawed the world
and i have the candied proof.

Land& Sky- Neuropathic toes

I cannot see down
I can barely feel neuropathic toes
then
I glance up & see
the moon in transit
& am left holding
the scissor to a pink rose

Between two bellies

Between two bellies—

sky and ground—

white scatters:

birds in space

in space-wrapped collection

like bits of memory

like bits of me

or the holes

punched from paper,

bouncing confetti circles

for the afterhours cleaning crew

to remove—

or the white scatters

of plum blossoms

dropping such relief

to the sidewalk

as the tree had been hit

by a backing truck, ouch,

and we weren’t sure

it would flock white

with the rest

of the plum trees on the block.

There are not so many birds,

but uncountable,

and the bellies of sky and ground

are as large as I can look

at them,

as large as I can see.

What might I say

when I go back inside?

The air is cold.

Gregarious birds

look like freedom to me.

I’m longing for something

to click into place,

for all the pieces

to flock into a semblance,

into the picture

of resolved sense.

forecast: snow

the sky is a dilated
microscope
of the white
bell
caps
singing
in
moss
this
morning.

they come
exquisite,
a fresh
breath
each
time
of
first
milk,
planted
some
fairy
time
long
ago,
the
homes
of
scampering
night
spirits.

dew,
that
evanescent
visitor,
glamours
cloud
and
moss
this
day.

when
they
predict
snow
we
now
know
they
are
not
talking
sky
they
are
talking
about
these
otherworldly
visitors
of
brightness.

Remembering it’s February

I saw my mother last night.

The whole family was walking to a wedding
when I realized I’d left home without my shoes.
The yellow polish on my toenails had almost flaked off.

I hurriedly explained how I had to go back
and dashed off without kissing her goodbye,
even though she’s been dead for five years
and I only see her on special occasions like this.

Then I accidentally stole a car and woke up thirsty.

Spring came early this year,
although I’m beginning to suspect that’s her favorite trick.

She comes early every year and then ducks back down to the bar for a while.

She stays just long enough for you to believe her caresses again,
waits until you’ve stepped out to meet her in a short-sleeved shirt
and then – bang – you’re on your own again, baby.

Yesterday the sky was grinning and the plum trees were full of blossoms.

Finches – I think they were finches – were hopping through the branches,
dipping their beaks with disbelief in white flower after flower.

Then the wind remembered it’s February and sang in the treetops all night.

This morning, waking again into mourning, the yard was so confused:
bare limbs shook and shivered in icy gusts
and the walk was covered with drifts that would’ve been snow
if I was a kid and two thousand miles away.

Snow? No, just the punch line to a cruel joke
where two early bloomers end up naked,
a pile of white petals around their ankles.

After a shower and two glasses of water,
I was alive enough to start making sense of it all.

The wind. The car. The wet flowers and my mother.

You’re on your own again, baby.

Land and Sky - Prompt for week of 2/14/2011

Glance down. Then glance up. Write a poem about what you see and how these views relate.

If you're feeling adventurous, imagine both the land (or sea) and the sky are parts of you. What is your inner landscape like right now? What does it tell us?

Here is how Basho, Japanese poet from the 11th century did it:

A Wild Sea

A wild sea-
In the distance over Sado
The Milky Way

This week's keyword tags: poem, landscape


by Jos Law: