Winterness

Winterness weighs heavy in these lengthening days of February.
I yawn through, cold and cloudy as the day, thinking about
hibernation. The groundhog says we are only six weeks away
from spring. But what does that rodent know about the desert?
Our cold nights may last into April though the days might grow
bright and warm. Now we sit in between snowstorms, one yesterday
and one on the way. That is our February. Winter may be cold or
slow to start and make us apprehensive but it will find us in
February looking at our seed catalogues. There will always be a
teasing “fool’s spring” when we have a few warm days laced together
— just enough for plants and sleepy animals to venture out of
their slumber only to be very rudely reminded of the slow departure
of winter.

The Home Place — 2023

On the Passing of the Year

Auld Lang Syne: We cheerfully sing the phrase
but shiver to recall what went before or
guess what’s yet to come.

Old Long Since — “since what?” we ask. Time only knows.
We bade Godspeed to so many and so much.
Once young and bold but now so far apart.

But, yes, we’ve wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne. So may we someday raise
a glass, my friend… and may it be in better times.

But for now, in times like these, we say a prayer…
or a whispered hope… as far and near, to each his own,
we’ll raise a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

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Note – I have reposted this at the end of every year, but now, at the end of our

third Pandemic Year, 2022, it seems almost more meaningful as we navigate

through these uncharted waters. I hope to see you all on the other shore when

this is done. Stay safe.

there should be snow

Sunset glows

from the peaks

across the valley

where the river runs.

The peaks are resplendent

in their coat of many colors.

We marvel at the reds and pinks at sunset.

And we see also the subdued greens

that are almost olive drab

like my soldier father’s old winter coat. 

Now, in this time of year,

Christmas is behind us

and we stare January in the face.

The mountains should be shining white

with snow — with old snow by now.

We can walk across the river

when it should be flowing

strong, like it did before.

The dry winds blow all the way from the sea

or from the cold north.

Our tumbleweeds have all run away

with the dust devils.

But now we have someone else’s instead.

That is the way with tumbleweeds,

you see them roll off to the horizon,

but we are someone else’s horizon.

And we get their tumbleweeds.

Everything on this Earth is connected.

So, we send them away with a blessing.

May they bring you health and peace,

and we wish you rain and snowfall

in the mountains.

     *        *        *

The Home Place — 2021

A Winter’s Walk

I was on an unintended winter walk
through a quiet streamside forest.
We call it a Bosque in these parts;
that’s the old Spanish name.
I had nowhere to go and on this day,
no Frosty promises to keep.

This season has a bony feel to it
when nature is falling into sleep.
The lay of the land is discovered.
Muscle and bone are revealed
as the golden leaves fall and curl
the grasses turn brown and brittle.

Listen, and feel, as you stray off the trail
to the crunch of the grass under your feet.
Deer tracks cross your path, just hours old,
and a large Coyote. The stream pulls them.
It never freezes over – an artery flowing even
in the coldest heart of winter.

Nature’s engineering is exposed to those
who stop to look for it. Tree trunks show
their common design. Seed pods open to
the wind as parachutes sail off to a new life.
Grassy seed heads bend but do not break.
I pass by and scatter the seeds.

The canyon walls have specks of white.
We are in December, our coldest month,
and have had a taste of snow. It never lasts.
The sun chases it away in hours, or a day.
It lingers only where the sun can’t find it;
protected by the shade and the cold nights.

The weather rules this time and place.
There is a change in the air. It seems
something Is always coming or going.
Off in the distance the clouds
trek over the mountain wall as the
winter sun turns frail and sets.

     *     *     *

The Home Place – 2019

Winter Pastels

I took a long walk among the old Cerrillos Hills
in what passes for winter these days.
This is where native miners once pecked out a living
searching for Chaco turquoise and galena for a thousand years.

Our season is heading downhill toward spring
but I’m still waiting for snow or sleet.
Where is our winter? Somehow it passed us by.
Even the wind refuses to blow most days.

As winters go ours was a bust and firestorms loom ahead.
Our desert nights are cold and all of nature was prepared.
Colors faded, and grasses grew brittle and brown as tinder.
It’s early February — but days are sunny and warm – just mostly brown.

But as I walk these brownish hills I see that pastels are “in” this year.
The Sky is turquois blue marked with snowbird contrails heading south.
In this place and time, the stylish prickly pear has decided to wear pink
instead of the usual dull winter purple and maroon we sometimes see.

Flesh as pink as a toddler’s cheeks but with whiskers waiting
for an errant touch.  Snag an ankle and you will know it all day.
Once you see cactus turned pink you begin to see it everywhere.
Even the pale dry crevice grasses take on a pastel winter glow.

     *     *     *

The Home Place — 2018