I took a class at the BBAC on "painting winter" yesterday. Fun thing to do on a snowy day!

I am tired of playing solitaire

showing myself how clever I am.

Usually I lose, of course.

And, what does that mean?

There is something oddly engaging

about turning cards and matching them up.

Red queen on black king.

Aces on the top.

Maybe the deal is

you can't really beat the odds

.

And I like to be reminded of that

once in a while.

Spell to be said before sleep

O tall black trees, bless the dark

Each clean dish nestled

in the cupboard; patient, useful

Deer in the forest, bedded down

trust night

Orion makes his way across heaven

his knife safely sheathed

All who worry without words,

lay still like snow

The moon's silver light

cascades down the mountain

swims in the trickling river.

Carry us all, O earth, safely to tomorrow.

( after Jane Hirschfield)

Miracle

with such imperfect tools

as sounds and letters

with our varied histories

and our fumbo\ling ineptitudes

with our need to be right

and to be praised

with our desire to say

the unsayable

with our hidden agendas

and most sincere desires

with our half mastery

of vocabulary and syntax

with our predilections to speak

rather than to listen

we yet transmit meaning

one way or another.

Magnificent

Magnificent
There is something thrilling
about snow sifting
from the sky in profound
abundance at dawn. Scarcely
visible in the new morning’s
gray light. Its tender
embrace of each bare thing.
Its steadiness somehow comforting.
It covers the history of yesterday -
the dog’s paw-prints, the tire tracks.
It uncovers your memories
of childhood sledding, forts.
Its predictable yet unpredictable
presence every year.
The way it makes the unbearable
bearable.
It cannot be willed or stopped.
Only beheld.
Will you?
Will you allow it
to sift through you
until you too
are made
magnificent?