A Season's Greeting

(C) R.L.K.

glimpsed from a
distance through
swirling fall-
ing snow a
light in a
window is
beckoning

Another Non-Sonnet

(C) R.L.K.

Too cold tonight for anything other
than idling about, in and not out. So
it comes to pass: I’m drinking a cup
of hot cocoa and staring out the window
while the moonlit trees cast ink-black
shadows on the snow. Consider that
or consider this: a voice on the radio
speaking of stars devoured by black holes
(does anti-matter matter?), followed by
more voices discussing the need to stimulate
the economy, then the too-familiar sound
of someone making the music of melancholy.
Meanwhile, the trees wait, yes, the old trees
wait and wait for another winter to pass.

Approaching Winter (Four Variations)

(C) R.L.K.

1.
sunday afternoon:
the clouds are stretched flat over
the snow-covered hills

2.
under a just gone
gray sky an old bicycle
leans against a shed

3.
just after sunset;
a page of old newspaper
clings to a park bench

4.
the empty swing in
the backyard sways in the wind...
time, and time again

Writing for Some Reason

(C) R.L.K.

Sometimes, on December days,
a sadness settles in. The afternoon sun
paints long blue lines of shadow
on the frozen pond, bare branches
are splayed against the sky, and sometimes
clouds pass, white as empty pages.

Sometimes you think of places, of people,
of things long gone. Sometimes you recall
a simple song played in an old style. And sometimes,
gathering together fragments of abandoned poems,
you try to rediscover the point of this or that:
why just those words, coming one after another?

And sometimes, on December nights,
moonlight falls like stillness on the land.

Somewhat Later

(C) R.L.K.

The sound of the wind this afternoon,
As wistful as a beggar’s tune;
The sunlight glinting off the wall;
The leaves that quiver, ready to fall:
All will become a memory.
How brief a time a year can be.

Outward Bound

(C) R.L.K.

Snow-draped maple beside an old bungalow,
White beside white at the end of a road --
A place one might return to
After the doing and daring,
After the beck and call,
After it all,
At twilight, a weary soul might return.

And,
As this train speeds me on
Towards the winter hills,
Towards the darkening sky,
I think, after all this time,
All in good time,
No more goodbyes.

Old Hymns

(C) R.L.K.

A morning like this:
First of November, Feast of All Saints;
the ‘gray autumn’
of meditative feeling,
slaty skies, dead leaves.

What has happened has happened.
Let us remember
those who have passed.
Pause.
Beside the river a willow sways.

Remember?

Too many have left
without notice. Too much has emptied
around us, yet we remain
at the wind’s edge, next to nothing,
singing what songs we can.