End of Winter Haiku
the first robin-
a dull day of chores
suddenly brighter
Stylus Poetry Journal, Sept. 2006
the snow nearly gone-
a white horse grazes
in a muddy field
Ambrosia, Jan. 2009
snow melting-
a slow walk
in slippery slush
Paper Frog, Feb. 2004
Announcement: My new book, ANCIENT HISTORY, haibun and tanka prose , is available on cyberwit.com and Amazon
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
THE SWISH OF TIME
The Harlem Valley Rail Line, opened in 1852, running 127 miles north from New York City to Chatham. Now, the last 50 miles is a hiking trail. My husband and I begin our walk in Millerton, a village at the southern end of the trail.
An embankment on either side, ten, twelve feet high, layers of stratified rock pressed one on the other, jagged edges, smooth flat surfaces, glistening with the run-off from melting snow. Clumps of moss cling to them, filling in the spaces like green mortar. On both sides clear water gurgling… puddling at the base. In the shaded sections, ice still on the path.
I imagine a train rolling through, steam engine chugging, smoke stack spewing black smoke, whistle blowing, kids waving from the tops of the embankments. At the stations along the line, loading docks busy with commerce from the nearby mills and farms, keeping the City fed. Local folks going from town to town to shop, visit, attend school. Weekenders up from the City to hunt, hike and dine at the hotels built just for the leisure trade.
lengthening shadows
pursued by the cold
we hurry our steps
Stylus Poetry Journal, July 2007
The Harlem Valley Rail Line, opened in 1852, running 127 miles north from New York City to Chatham. Now, the last 50 miles is a hiking trail. My husband and I begin our walk in Millerton, a village at the southern end of the trail.
An embankment on either side, ten, twelve feet high, layers of stratified rock pressed one on the other, jagged edges, smooth flat surfaces, glistening with the run-off from melting snow. Clumps of moss cling to them, filling in the spaces like green mortar. On both sides clear water gurgling… puddling at the base. In the shaded sections, ice still on the path.
I imagine a train rolling through, steam engine chugging, smoke stack spewing black smoke, whistle blowing, kids waving from the tops of the embankments. At the stations along the line, loading docks busy with commerce from the nearby mills and farms, keeping the City fed. Local folks going from town to town to shop, visit, attend school. Weekenders up from the City to hunt, hike and dine at the hotels built just for the leisure trade.
lengthening shadows
pursued by the cold
we hurry our steps
Stylus Poetry Journal, July 2007
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
CHRISTMAS DAY 2002
Christmas afternoon at my daughter’s house. Lulled by good food, holiday music and family cheer. Realizing too late we have stayed too long.
a spreading whiteness
as darkness descends—
the intense quiet
Street not plowed. Almost no indication where curbs are. We open the side windows to see better. Heavy- laden trees and bushes reach out to grab at the car and lash us. Can’t make a hill. We back down and try again. A longer run this time, but still not quite. Once more we back down and slide into a drift.
wind-blown snow
the slow slog back
to family
Presence, January 2006
Christmas afternoon at my daughter’s house. Lulled by good food, holiday music and family cheer. Realizing too late we have stayed too long.
a spreading whiteness
as darkness descends—
the intense quiet
Street not plowed. Almost no indication where curbs are. We open the side windows to see better. Heavy- laden trees and bushes reach out to grab at the car and lash us. Can’t make a hill. We back down and try again. A longer run this time, but still not quite. Once more we back down and slide into a drift.
wind-blown snow
the slow slog back
to family
Presence, January 2006
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