The thawing, deep blue

cloudless cove, a field of light,

is in trouble. I

know the feeling—change

leaking like new-old desire,

the brute horizon,

the harsh cries of ducks.

Sitting still is beyond me.

Koans make me dance.

Mid-February.

Suddenly a space for one

or two mourning doves.

In her puffy coat,

bare-legged in February,

she glares at her beau.

It’s Valentine’s Day.

He pays for lunch knowing

it makes no difference.

Nor would it matter

to her that for the moment

she charms an old man.

Where’s the wonder I

Ask myself on winter walks.

All color gone from

The trees, no bird song

At nightfall. Shadows blacken.

Darkness answers back.

Few distractions match

Writing verse. These old eyes rest

In peace on her face,

Her eyes. Who are you,

They ask as we pass daily.

Each day surprise fills

The space between us,

The space I save (the space saves

Me) from distraction.

Wind and ice outside

inside I touch up old things

wander just the same

Perplexing wonder

this cold bright February day

I am still this way

No snow on the ground.

The squirrel’s rush absolute,

cut into the cold.

New Year’s Eve I stop

by the pond out of habit

only to be stopped

by transparency.

Pure sunlight calmly addressed

my resolute self.

And it broke open.

The restlessness of naked

sunlight is divine.

It was a long kiss—

the blossom detached itself

and fluttered down, down