Late October

Sunshine drips from mottled yellows and reds,
their dying lights evening, reflects sunset,
catches a hint of purple, left over
greens of summer. Scattered across the drive
sidewalk blanketed, they crunch under foot,
play my personal sound track, with neither
symphony nor rock band, just late robins
wondering where everyone else has gone.

Pink skies brighten to azure without clouds
darken to violet as cold settles in.
It’s the season to harvest ripened fruit
and prepare for winter’s chilly long nights.

I delay the rake, set aside bagging
and delight in the disarray of fall.




Wind howls outside
I feel winter separate
what is from what was


The forecast is bleak
we will not see the spring soon
…enough with winter.


I lay awake now
wonder what’s keeping you warm
Is it memory?

Three Haiku for a Winter Cold

Except for hot tea
and toast; her winter meal is


Eyes burn and throat-sore,
she stumbles, falls to the couch –
a winter coma.


The room spins briefly
before everything goes dark;
enter winter cold.


Chilly Afternoon

Windy howl
chases her around corners,
chills just by its sound.

She shivers, wanting
the warmth only
found beneath her blanket.

Such afternoons push her                 away,
remove her from people
she doesn’t want to be

makes her wish she was
with someone
– else.


Capture the Yearning

She pulled the leaf from the table yesterday,
knows these cloudless cold days are prone
to solitary meals. Snowbound
she’ll enjoy homemade chili,
steam floating above the bowl
and listen for the whisper of ghosts –

those apparitions from days gone
when the children were small,
the drafty house was a home
and life had yet to fracture into splinters
too fragile to glue back together.

Notebook folded open, she writes.
Inked lines on paper fall one after the other
until they capture the yearning
she suddenly feels for a full table
with all the leaves in place,
the clink of dishes being passed,
wine glasses filled, and laughter.



Snow Angel
Spreading her limbs, she is a snow angel
beneath the willow. Each crystal creates
a new pattern on her nakedness; clings
to the tip of breast and fullness of thigh.
The wide arc of her arms expands her wings;
the motion of her legs, straightens her skirt.
Winter’s breath, carried to her across fields,
kisses away the cold to warm her skin
from pale to rose, leaves her heavy with sleep.
Ice-curled branches dip, encircle her
bed of white with a lover’s tender touch.
Ready to take flight, her eyes close, lips part,
and with an exhalation, she soars high
above the ground; silhouette left below.


Certain to Burn


Burning pieces of my past, I crumple

papers and pages; those memories lost,

the in-between-years when I was content

to be loved and to love – was it illusion?


I watch flames lick at the edge of my self,

curl around those parts recorded in pen

on paper, deeds and promises now gone –

once the center of the world, now the frame.


Shoved among the ashes, rest two pieces,

broken hard pine – soon heart burnt at the core;

the metaphor does not escape me, no

they rest against one another as we

lay once, bodies connected by fire;

passion sure to burn hot – now cold embers.