Day by day
the shadows are dwindling,
assuming more realistic shapes,

like the ambitions of a man
in middle age.
The snow hardens underfoot.

I hear the first
mourning dove call of the year:
desire in a minor key.

Series Navigation← MarchWinter gardener →


  1. Well, hopefully they won’t dwindle TOO much! I like the poem.


  2. That last line. You’re on a roll with great last lines again. (Not sure what that augurs, if anything.)


    1. It could mean I’m failing in my stated mission to make open-ended poems, poems that don’t click shut in the last line.


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