A Frozen Peace

The woods outside my door

Are begging me to plunge into their

Snow covered depths,

With fresh fallen powder 

To crunch beneath my boots. 

The still and frozen air

Is heavy with the silence

Of a thousand stifled thoughts.

My heart thuds quietly in my chest

And my breath fogs the space around me

Before being whisked away on the breeze. 

Fallen trees and hardy saplings 

Provide an obstacle course for my 

Hike among the bowing trees. 

Nature holds its breath

On the late December day,

Its furious frozen temper


And for a moment the world 

Is at peace

While I am left longing for the peace of your presence. 


To Sit in a Cemetery

I sit in the three hundred year old cemetery and closed my eyes. The quiet seeping into my bones chilling, then warming me. Pocketed stones clatter together on headstones, while the only whispers heard are the ones that sing through the tears of the weeping willows. Above my head the sun shines brightly, almost too gay for where I am. Thoughts shift around as my ears listen intently to noises that seem absent from this time and space. Are they the voices of the long dead, or merely the scritching of tiny feet over bark? A gust of wind blows the hair back from my face, and then settles next to me, and I feel calm. A shout from my friend announces our departure, so I grudgingly haul to my feet and walk to the falling down wall and back into the world of the animate.

The Legend of the Seasons: Winter

Once, a very long time ago, when humanity could speak with earth and understand the strange language of the trees, the world was free and glorious. Even the seasons were not confined to the invisibility of the skies, but walked among mankind, conversing easily with any they came across. Of all the seasons, Winter was by far the loneliest. She often tread barefoot along the forest paths, a thin cape draped and clinging to her skin. Where she walked, snow flurries drifted from her, rolling off her shoulders, and ice spread in cracked glass spider-webs over the dirt. A crown of snowbells woven by the hands of a child circled her forehead, a considerable contrast to her skin and hair. Few people ever walked with the Winter, leaving her to discover the world on her own. loneliness was a companion, but she grew accustomed to the shadow, and learned to enjoy its presence. The quiet opened her ears to the whispers in the trees and the rumblings of the earth. Some days were spent sitting to watch the sun walk across the sky, kissing the treetops in the morning and the evening. She avoided towns and searched out the wide open spaces of the North, contenting herself to watch humanity from afar, save for the few moons each year when the others gave up their domains to her icy touch. And so in the North she resides, observing the planet and watching it grow, in a glacial convent of population one.



The world dashes about outside my window

the cold air pressing its nose against the pane.

I sit in near silence, warming my hands and face and toes.

My driver is sweet and obliging,

talking of weather and daily generalities.

In his speech I detect an accent, 

sleeping among the English words,

tingeing them in a strange hue.

He asks me a question, and I reply,

“Je comprends ce que tu dit.”

His eyes dart to me in the rearview mirror,

a new light shining in them,

the light that bursts forth in recognition of a kindred spirit.

A moment later, the dam erupts and words strung together

trip over each other in his haste to hear his mother tongue.

Rapid fire, back and forth we send our comments.

How much I’ve missed this language,

this tongue as familiar as my own. 

The conversation ends abruptly

when at my destination we’ve arrived,

I’m at loathe to leave and still I bid farewell

in the hopes that I have raised his spirit,

and given joy to a man who might otherwise

be seen as incoherent.



When the music’s stopped and the moon’s gone away, the hour’s come, your feet to stray.

Walking the dimly lit streets, watching the trains go by with empty seats.

How long until the world begins to fade, when it’s gone to ebony ‘stead of jade.

Tired feet to carry you home, passing houses and churches and domes.

A warm summer breeze with the small bite of autumn, giving reminder so as not to be forgotten.

Stars shine down in celestial glory, what if, what if they could tell their story?

Birdsong in flight long left behind, time and the dawn have yet to blind.

To sleep again they go, to wait out the demons fighting below.

The war does rage on, in silence they grapple with swords drawn.

Monsters ascend from the deepest  of anguish, yearning for their minds to wither and languish.

These fiends they battle in the light of day cannot their bodies touch or slay.

Their minds and hearts strain ‘neath the weight, begging for the torture to abate.

So come and see all you who stand on by, the warriors in combat with odds defied.