Luisa is writing responses to my Morning Porch tweets faster than I can post them, so to clear the backlog and bring us up to the present, I thought I’d better publish four together. With each of these, her date of compostion is the same as mine, so to simplify things I’ve kept only the former and hotlinked it to the Morning Porchism that prompted it. Click through to see how she has built upon my original words and images. The latter two are 80 or 90 percent Igloria (we haven’t gotten any appreciable snowfall so far today, for example). —Dave
White with rime,
the cattails’ broken blades—
Under the springhouse eaves,
an empty phoebe nest—
Two juncos come, wings
fluttering like prayer flags—
As if to let us know the world
has not forsaken us completely—
There’s one cold note in the air
and its blues have found me again—
Too late to pull up the remaining stalks
of summer’s last tomato plants, tamped
hard into the ground. Now thistles
shrivel in a brittle wreath,
and the rose is ravished by the wind;
it spreads a shroud over the porch
and litters it with cryptic asterisks,
with carets, with upended tarots.
What shall I do with you,
yellowed gingko leaf;
with these tickets of faded red,
torn from the geranium?
Season of red and gold,
season of evergreen and silver.
Season of honey and clove,
season of lit tapers.
Throw more wood on the fire
that it might burn more fiercely.
The wheel is still turning, my love;
but know that it returns.
A few flakes float through the air.
A gray squirrel wanders through the lilac branches.
How easy to lose oneself to silence in this
sifting of white upon white that’s fallen
all night long. The wind soughs,
and all the branches nod their white-
capped heads. The neighbor swings open
his gate to take the dog for a walk—
Away now, at the end the street, the yellow
of his parka and the flash of golden fur
make an orb of jaunty noise against the snow.
High overhead, the half moon bends its big right ear.