Tag Archives: snow

Scratching Frost

Ahead of my steps in linear course, 
the shovel scritches back and forth
- a sound that scatters with the snow
and bits of debris ground below.

As I amble across the drive
the scratching noise itself derives.
A haul gets tossed to the edge,
bits fall wayside, marking a ledge.

This song in concert with my walk
could not be heard with snowplow squawk-
rumbling in the cold grey air
tossing snow, making bare

the concrete surface on which I stand.
The scraping by a shovel in hand,
the detail frost and snow aligned,
showing what I've left behind.

And as the chore has come to close
I look back at the path I chose.
Leaning on the shovel there,
snow still falling everywhere.

The best way out is always through – Robert Frost

Devolving Winter

I lingered to watch the snowfall settle
upon an outside marble pedestal –
building layer-on-layer of snowflake and ice,
fractal and spacious, this echelon

drawn as a disk – its depth elevated
by landing these crystal forms intercalated
a structure withstanding the bitter wind,
conformed to the table’s circular whim.

Skimming this image, one wonders of words
that fall into place, or alight just like birds,
landing on branches selected ahead,
braving the wind and the ice also there.

Where, after the storm and the cold disappears,
the warming sun scratches, begins to shear
the sides of the snow-layered platter –
the melt dripping over the edge.

Alleged fair weather sets in
and devolves the lattice: winter’s has-been.
Leftover water pools in the center,
the plinth just a basis for puddles.

Then subtle, come birds, that alight like the words
that bathe in remnant splashes
and wing away the last fluency
of winter’s framework and brashness.


When I look into the snow, I watch a single flake fall. If I follow it,
the spiral trail echos until it disappears among its forebearers
and covers the dead grass.

The next one tracks a different route,
but it achieves the same goal
as its predecessor, and the next one, and the next…

If I lose focus and see only the field, the snowfall moves in groups.
The trailing falls away as it becomes something
more wracked and solitary.

I am immobile.

Later, I can see the ground where my dogs make paths.
They follow the same tracks they make in summer months
to investigate the smells of the borderlands.

In the snow, the paw prints map the trips to their favorite tree
and circle back the long way around. It outlines a crescent shape
that lays a shadow against the porch light.

My neighbor has a grove of pampas grass
that looks like a huddled mass of people paused –
making their way around his house against the force of a winter gale.

There are no tracks.