To Remember

In my old bedroom
Looking out on a leaning pine,
I stop to rest,
And for a few days
Carve out a time
That is both old and new.

At dinner, a wooden spoon
Scrapes the last bit of rice
Into the blue-patterned bowls,
And I sit with mine
In a way I remember to do
Over the white-tiled table.

Walking with you now
Down streets I know,
I see geese against a deep red sky
In a way I do not remember.

Winter Movement

I cannot help but stare
At the pale gray sky

And in bas relief, those few branches

Tipped with a faraway spring.

There is a moment

When my breathing quickens

As geese pour across the sky.

And clouds break off from clouds.

Before Christmas

I am flying
Towards the full moon of winter
And on the lightest of clouds
I am hurtled
Into a sea
Glittering with the lights
That will lead me home,
To curtains that billow
And the still white walls.

When we are alone,
My mother strings
Yesterday's lights
Over a tree
That is half my size
And the song she sings
I have heard before,
Of birds in twilight,
She tells me now.

I am surprised
That in all these years
I never thought
To ask what it was about.

Winter Light

I can count
On the beams of light
In shapes not taught
In high school geometry
And the way my eyes
Squint at the whitened birch.

The Library

In the silence of the morning

Among shelves of well-used books,

I see the few snowflakes fall,

And the brown stalks swaying

With parched winter green.

Once, I had huddled

In musty stacks of unread theses

Over diagrams thick with the cycles

Of carbon and life.

Now, my pen scratches,

And I hear the leafing of pages

Against the tap tap of keyboards

And a well-modulated whisper

Heard above my breathing.

The White Scarf

I can see the white scarf
Swing over her shoulder
And the practiced flick
By her small hand.

Nothing has changed.
She will go back
To the house
With the winter tinsel,
And in the quiet of the night
She will wait for him.

It is the same.
She hears the door,
And the heavy steps
Come closer in the dark,
And his voice,
Thick with glasses emptied
At the corner bar.

Under her scarf
Last night's marks have gone.
She turns and smiles,
I'll be okay, doc.
Thanks as always.

Twilight

I am slowly sinking
Into a hole
Whose bottom I cannot see,
And on walls that encircle me
My hands grope for answers.

Soft against the sky,
I see the outlines of a tree,
One familiar to me
In a past life
That was only yesterday.

In the approaching twilight,
My tree inclines its silver branches
Towards my reaching hands.

A Beam of Light

My morning has gone

Leaving behind

Only the leaves

In a cup

Once full of tea.

I take my cue and sit

In the unshuttered light

Of a cold day.

The whir from the wash

Is my companion

Now that the cats

Have fled

To the far-flung warmth

Of our heated house.

Sitting there

For what seems like seconds

I am carried

On my soft breathing

Pausing to notice

When a beam of light

Smiles on my lap.

Canadian Geese Sighting on a Monday

I had the Monday morning thoughts
Of patients and their stories,
Each pair sitting side by side
In limbo
Waiting for its proper label.

I left the warmth
Of my mildly dented Corolla
For the unremitting gray
Of the clinic's parking lot.

With winter wrappings close about me,
I heard a ragged chorus,
Sustained through the sky,
And saw a seamless procession
Carried on breezes not felt below
As it sang for the first time.

The First Snowfall

With the first snowfall

My cardinal returns.

He alights on his tree

Out of an instinct

I could only guess at.

He stays awhile,

Testing each thin limb,

Half-hoary in sunlight,

Settling on the one

Unbowed by his weight.

I look up

To see his absence,

And in his wake,

The only red I see

Is the stop sign

On the street corner.