The Ride

The Ride

In March the wind knocks
From the night its low
Train mourn
And the house shakes
Until the stove pipe
Rattles its rusty teeth
And I hang to the edge
Of my bed for the bucking
Ride into spring;
Not the spring of your dreams
But a common nightmare
Of trampled woodpiles
And mud, close cabin madness,
Waking from hibernation
Wearing stiffness,
Thumbed seed catalogs
And a hunger for
That slice of green,
A tonic for the bitter kernel
Resting at my liver.

To The Equinox

To The Equinox


Slow spring,
Shy in your youth.
Peeping crocus tips.
But watch out…
Sun and green,
Blossoms,
Song and giddy mating dance.
Earth quickens with you
And there’s no stopping
Your gaudy, bawdy fertility
Rites.

Trilliums

Trilliums

On a March day
I will walk where
the trillium root
lies under the snow
with its thread of truth
to be found in a
galaxy of holy trinities.


At the clock’s turn
the cock will crow
with new blood,
seeing the sky open
over red budded hills
and light will enter the land
again like a savior
risen from the grave.

Dreamt Spring

Dreamt spring

Last night while wearing
The heavy wool of winter,
My breath rose and fell
On the swells of a dreamer’s sea.
Green things grew behind my eyes.

I slept deep; the banked bed of
Coals glowed while the house
Geraniums slyly unfurled knobs
Of blooms, unsheathed red claws.

Listening under a frosty moon
For winter’s last gasp,
Uncoiled and open,
I dreamt the birth of spring.