the ice-fishers
far dark sitting sillouettes
move imperceptibly

lichen, frozen
you stay the way
you stay

too tired
to try to talk
to you tonight

another snapshot
the camera at arm's length
all eyes and horizon

are the days so short?
i didn't ask snowshoeing past
spruce tops in the snow

shovelling the snow
minus ten in a t-shirt
man that sun is warm

makes a sacred space
by heaves of ice upon the lake
a monolith of blue

overwhelmed, unable
to scrape the frost flowers
from my windshield

the fruit on bad days
of what labour leaves me sour
with hope fermenting

a little snow drift
on the carpet by the door
where the draft comes from

metallic pinches
my fingers in a cold snap
fumbling the key

solitude renewed
the echo of our voices
sighing to silence

a dusky blanket
worn on a bed of snow
our shadow stretches

the light from below
the branches shadows are white
after the snowfall

beauty eagerly
reading pomes to herself
i can picture you

our steps sounding time
in moonlit pine, marching home
down snowmobile trails

Prelude to Winter

The moth under the eaves
with wings like
the bark of a tree lies
symmetrically still -

And love is a curious
soft-winged thing
unmoving under the eaves
when the leaves fall.


William Carlos Williams

(i can't contain
it) love (within
me) (within you)

welcoming the new year
by snapping carpets clean outside
cold in just a t-shirt

the rays that rose
have risen
beyond the horizon

the sky
is lit, and not
below it

i just now got it
bought it and then i lost it
and i'm so empty

to read this pome
after you read this pome
observe one minute

sheet ice thrust slowly
shifts up fault lines that scrape
the surface to the sky

the first indication
the lake had frozen overnight
the sound of no waves

fallen around me
this darkness is creeping
and breathing

truly relaxed
a day or two off
after holidays

seeing if the ice
is thick enough to walk on
seeing that i am