a range of three to twelve hours
five nearly passed and still, no sign
I wait for my first sourdough to rise

a range of three to twelve hours
five nearly passed and still, no sign
I wait for my first sourdough to rise
I yo-yo the thermostat
too warm, too cool, too warm again —
the change, many years long past
so that’s not it! —
I think my indecisive body
simply cannot make up its mind
barefoot across a late-night floor,
frigid air streams in, unopposed —
our front door fallen open —
winter letting itself inside
I shiver in the realization
there are those with so much less
than what we take for granted
Coco peers out the sunroom window —
is he as blinded by the new-fallen snow as I am?
I wonder, do his dreams recall those puppy leaps
of uncontainable joy into that brisk vastness of white?
first snow; I walk about twenty minutes
but quality over quantity; that’s what counts
eight inches of snow, with more still falling
there’s not much traffic on these unplowed streets;
the entire (lumpy, uneven) center — all to myself
My prose poem, inadvertently, I disturb the sanctuary of a nest hidden in a clump of shrubbery, was published today in January House Literary Journal.
It is also scheduled to appear, in print, in their Spring issue coming out in April or May.
unconventional dinner of scalloped potatoes & ham
Bill’s pumpkin pie satisfies longings deep within
we play pinochle, Macy’s parade on the kitchen TV
glimpses of sunlight burst through the fog of her dementia
bittersweet gratification, these subdued, slanting moments
first snow shelters fallen leaves
cushions them from the winds yet to come
how out of place they’ll appear
against the freshness of the distant spring
emptied feeder whip-wrapped around its branch
another lies broken, mangled, on the ground
Old Man winter doesn’t bother to knock
he forcibly removes the door, muscles his way in
spewing water like a pod of whales,
grounds crews blow out irrigation lines
up and down the fairway —
our end-of-autumn Old Faithful
Chit Chat