Like liquid glass,
Water gives itself
Rising slowly
In waves of steaming mist
Into the dead calm
Of an icy pink dawn
Driftwood
Bearded in hoary frost
Frozen to sparkling sand
Ripe for fireplace picking
Waits
Geese fly
Honking talk
Voiceless ducks
Counterpoint with whirring wings
Air so cold
It makes your teeth ache
I hold the coffee cup up
And watch its mist meld with
The steaming water
Hunching into my coat
Watching gulls soar
On unseen updrafts
I marvel at the life before me
In the season of the dead
As I go to gather firewood.
© By Pete Bolte (pbolte@msn.com)
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