Late November

Small wind flexing
stale breath of softened fall
ready to harden into winter
Last tender water song
and the sun strong through clouds

Two days till December
a tenacious window holds
summer's friction, sand's mold
and the dog just looking

Comfortable on a high perch,
give of the dune ridge
and tumble of last softened days
into the columns of deep water:
developing cold

First Fly

When, this morning
I heard the fly on its zigzagging flight
across the plane above my bed,
toward the square of light at the window,
lurched into motion after lingering --
where? --
I remembered the buzz,
how it sawed its way
into my sleep,
a pure finger of reality
into my dream

And I was thinking, though asleep,
it's April,
early for this fly to be here
inciting a vein of irritation to thrum,
melting the pure surface of slumber
to set its spindly legs on my nerves

March Begins

And the light of course
is changed
But still the grime-covered mounds
of icy snow
like great beasts of winter
slumbering roadside

My first glimpse
of the unsure morning sun
a gulp of well-being
its latent strength recalling
elastic days of spring and summer,
the saturated days of fall

Driving home,
late afternoon
winter into spring
when the light holds out
just a little bit more each day

Pale moon
in wan sky
round exhale
of my exhaustion

This winter of icy vestiges
collecting filth
a journey from hopeful
to unspun
thin threads too wispy
for fingers too cold
to catch