Three Fields along Highway 42

i.

The broad face

of the February field

is tilted to the falling snow –

broken cornstalk stubble

waiting for the razored plow.

ii.

The snow, the field,

the fog rolling in waves

off of the lake,

a blank page.

The split rail fence,

the bare trees,

the broken barns,

black parentheses.

iii.

Beyond the fence,

nothing

but a white screen.

Along the road,

silhouettes of trees

suddenly appear and fade,

appear and fade

in the frames

of the car windows,

somber fireworks

in black and white

in a memory

belonging

to someone else.

Breaking and Entering

Winter broke and entered years ago,

pressing icy fingers against our skin,

wandering under our shirts,

searching for our hearts,

listening as we slowly wound down –

we were watches kept in a drawer of an empty house.

But I think you must have jacked open

some painted-over lead-poisoned window,

somewhere, deep inside,

(maybe in that sealed-up chamber of a basement tomb

with a wood-burning stove and

a second-hand recliner with a place

for a beer to slowly warm, but not a place for everything)

letting a southern wind blow through

this Northern plain and breathe Spring into my heart,

or my cerebellum,

making me wonder if –

anyway then you woke and

Summer bloomed into my lips, my hips,

they rocked like ships

oh, and

I think for a little while, maybe, you and I

can keep the window open, keep

the two by four jammed

up against the door, keep it

barred against the

ravenous wolfish Fall,

where he waits,

anticipates

the last of the ticks

as he licks

his lips

and yawns

at the door.

Night on Shakey Lakes, -17°F

Tonight we sleep

above the ice,

(cocooned like mousies in sleeping bags)

under an impossible number of January stars,

(brilliant like only winter stars can be, Orion hunting alone)

over the lake, and the fish in the lake,

(swimming slowly in the iced water capped by sixteen inches of ice)

in this bitter cold,

(as I burrow further and further into my nest)

through this lonely watch of night,

(three decades in, we breathe across the aisle, untangled)

inside my dreams the lake is a giant, shifty and cross, too much river in its belly,

(the ice creaks and rumbles and groans and cracks and growls)

beyond this shelter the sun’s first rays slide over the ice,

(the bright silver sliver of moon slipping like a minnow behind the bare tree line)

in this small space, it’s a false darkness,

(we’ve blocked the sunrise, and curious neighbors)

below me, though, the holes drilled yesterday to catch the fish in the belly of the lake

(tempted, or not, by the dancing bait)

catch instead the light from the sunrise

that I leave for you

as I drive

away.

Unleashed (A Sonnet)

First winter snow has tripped and falls and falls,

I lace my boots and take my sheltered lens;

Behind me, windows throw a yellow pall

of slanted patches on white-trousered lawns;

Snow stills the trees and fills the prints of those

who walked ahead along the unlit road;

We will not meet, my pace unhurried slows –

four paws and to his right the man who strode;

Since nothing tells the story of the leash

that bound the dog to man and back again,

I break the plane, the unseen line I breach – 

No sound it makes, the freedom I pretend;

my shutter quiet here above the snow –

belated, now I walk this road alone.