Two Poems

Aurelian Lyre

Every year late in January
the sun picks a day
to stroke her gold-strung lyre
peddle warmth soft as a brooding hen.
Cats twitch in sun-baked sleep
foolish daffodils race
to double their height
I tiptoe out of my coat
till only the hope of lingering light
brocades the sky.

Once in late January
a friend clicked a picture
of me, coatless,
a yearling goat stretched across my lap:
Frankie and I cover girls
for the year's book of days

Now on that golden day
woven into late January
when I, silver haired,
hear the siren's lyre
I feel Frankie's pulse warm my legs,
cheer on the daffodils
till evening slips me back into my coat.

 

How Winter Sings

Darkness sleeps
on drifts chiseled
by wordless winds
Moon chills
silver shadows
that stalk the night
Breath clouds puff
from birds dawn-mute
at feeder
Morning snowflakes
stitch frozen eiderdown
to fallow earth
Chimney smoke rises
mimes ashen clouds
Deer paws stun snow
flakes scurry silently
Ice-lidded pond poses
at brink of dormant field
tempts parched fox
padding her pilgrimage
to spring