December Moon, Poem by May Sarton

DECEMBER MOON
by May Sarton

Before going to bed

After a fall of snow

I look out on the field

Shining there in the moonlight

So calm, untouched and white

Snow silence fills my head

After I leave the window.


 
Hours later near dawn

When I look down again

The whole landscape has changed

The perfect surface gone

Criss-crossed and written on

Where the wild creatures ranged

While the moon rose and shone.


 
Why did my dog not bark?

Why did I hear no sound

There on the snow-locked ground
In the tumultuous dark?


 
How much can come, how much can go

When the December moon is bright,

What worlds of play we’ll never know

Sleeping away the cold white night

After a fall of snow.

Painting: Phoenix Arts Group, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

zen and the snow shovel, poem by Debby J. Rosenberg

zen and the snow shovel

by Debby J. Rosenberg

silence but for the scrape
of a blade across concrete
the icy crackle as boots
pressed into the dry powder
and cheeks rosy exposed
themselves to the arctic
chill
 
how like a human
trying to control the
path, clearing it of
frosty debris
 
silence was all around
winter had descended
burying bushes
under white blankets
 
the breath expressed
with a misty vapor
exposing the ether 
of alive
 
the sound, the smell
the touch, and the sight
was glorious for a moment
and felt like the waves of 
nature’s disposition conspiring
its sustainable existence
and all I have is a shovel

Photo: Kay Ellen, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

White-Eyes, Poem by Mary Oliver

WHITE-EYES

Poem by Mary Oliver

In winter

    all the singing is in

         the tops of the trees

             where the wind-bird

 

with its white eyes

    shoves and pushes

         among the branches.

             Like any of us

 

he wants to go to sleep,

    but he’s restless—

         he has an idea,

             and slowly it unfolds

 

from under his beating wings

    as long as he stays awake.

         But his big, round music, after all,

             is too breathy to last.

 

So, it’s over.

    In the pine-crown

         he makes his nest,

             he’s done all he can.

 

I don’t know the name of this bird,

    I only imagine his glittering beak

         tucked in a white wing

             while the clouds—

 

which he has summoned

    from the north—

         which he has taught

             to be mild, and silent—

 

thicken, and begin to fall

    into the world below

         like stars, or the feathers

               of some unimaginable bird

 

that loves us,

    that is asleep now, and silent—

         that has turned itself

             into snow.

 Photo: Public domain