The Middlewesterner

Snow-covered and slippery,
as they say -

fortunately, I'm
sliding that way.

"Using paper
faster than

you're making
waste, now that

would be good."

*

"See how you
do it? You

say something,
then say it

again, find
the rhythm

in it and
repeat."

*

"Sometimes, hard work.
Sometimes, simply

paying attention."

"We find only that which
wishes to be found."

*

"No," he said,
"a book is not like

a bank you put
words into."

*

"Hope, like sorrow,
eats its own."

Snow on the trees,
as if all the world

is a simple study
in black and white.

Yes,
it's morning,

it's winter,
it's cold.

Not much
more to say

than that,
except

the fading
stars are

lovely.

Open water
in winter,

making its own
cold steam.

Eight crows set like
great black buds

on the winter tree -
sharp noise and they

all bloom at once.

Winter day
as gray as

night is black.
Hawk watching

from his post -
sentinel -

won't look back.

"The poem, like wine in
its sweet selfish lines."

*

"Poem - not
the words,

the wisdom
of their sound."

*

"Short poems
only, hard-blown
in high wind."

"Not everything
needs wisdom."

*

"Chicken poacher? Poet?
What's the difference?"

*

"Sometimes blessings
are the curse."

Birds
huddled in winter,

snow
falling on their

noise factory.

Ditches full of snow,
wind and no
place for it to go.

O Sol. The sun
is singing

another tune.
The days

grow longer.
Once again

we put on hope.

Snow on the empty field.
Feathers of the dark crow.
Cast of the morning sky.

Mystery of light, returning.

A certain wetness
in the in-between,

a certain loneliness
in her drive home.

The sadness of her eyes.

"Poem is
a roll of vowels,

thump of the beating
heart,

a little meaning
and hope."

*

"Lift
your eyes -

isn't it
sky enough

high enough?"

*

"Disarm the poet,
he will speak to the wind."

"Waiting for the poem?
Sometimes it's like

sitting in the sun
and something catches fire."

*

"Either the frog
has jumped, or

is jumping, or
will jump.

This is what we
live for."

*

"So often this
edge of this is

that edge of that.
How can you

make distinctions?"

Dried grasses
cup the snow.

The sun has
finally let go.

Splotched hawk
against winter
sunset - light

like an arrangement
of love.

Winter roads,
the weather,

the dance of chance.

A scratch of grass
in the snowy field,

the color of daylight
receding.

"You cannot will
a poem into
being. If you

push too hard
it pushes back

and then - nothing."

*

"Music teaches
the slow poet -

if he listens."

*

"Short poems
can't do what

long poems
can, but then

why would they
want to?"

"Writing poems?
It's like fishing.

Use the right bait,
find the right spot,

you catch them."

*

"You're poets -
don't use money

to keep score."

*

"How do you
write so much?"
they asked.

"I buy in bulk,"
he said.

Snowy owl rising
from the snowy field
into drab sky -

am I lost, or
only confused?

Silence is not
the only snow.

In the bowl of winter
the bow of boughs

weighted by snow.

Ah, snow!
The day laid low.

The onceness of
this once.

The always of
everything else.