swirling

Posted on December 10, 2009 by riverwriter

In the headlights, snow swirls over the roadway:
level sinuous eddies, not liquid but fluid.
The car glides like a boat planing on ghostly
water, or a bird drifting over liquid
marble in the mind of Ullysses’ men
so far from home, so lost, so long.

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a half hour or so

Posted on December 9, 2009 by riverwriter

The weather clock shifted significantly this morning:
from half past autumn to grab-your-boots Winter.
Access to the street required more effort than has
been usual: instead of walking out the door in a light
jacket and casual shoes, it was heavy Continue reading →

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after sun fall

Posted on December 8, 2009 by riverwriter

So it’s dark and
I’m standing on a rough patch of ice
lifting bags of groceries
into the trunk of our car.
The black glove of sky
clenches down on the embers
glowing from a few shop windows. Continue reading →

Posted in aging, Poetry, scapes, thoughts below ground | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment