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Through Winter Windows

Trace of footfalls
pierce glistening white,
tokens of travellers.
Bygone origins,
trivial destinations.
Blinding reflections as
icy air sneaks through
unseen fissures.
Warmth beckons
and beauty is abandoned.


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Among the dusty musty stalls
they sit.
Once mighty
oak, pine, maple.
hand joined,
hand shined.
Beyond my will
my fingers
caress the grain.
still full of life.
Made to contain possessions
now harboring history
to be used again.

The Calendar

In the early morning fog, the formation of geese rises above the Mississippi River taking wing amidst their rhythmic calls of navigation. The wind whispers among the trees. The lush green of the dancing leaves has given way to a pallet of reds, yellows and oranges. In the field, the pumpkin vines are withering as the fruit ripens full and round. On the wall of the garage the anger of the thermometer has been assuaged by the cool breeze. I sit at my desk, glancing at the calendar in a moment of confusion. August 21?


Faded pages whisper of the woman who bore me. They whisper her heart, her dreams, her cares. I read and strain and caress the whispers.