I was going to write a poem or something today
but all I could think of to say was,
"Holy FUCK, it's cold outside!"

Sweet light from a lamp,
lofted bug-like above my
desk, watching me work

Snowy skies ring
with the laments of crows,
and white and green mix
where heaven meets earth,
while new buds locked in ice
whisper all is well
in winterspring.

Thoughts

Life on the line
while old pilate
whispers in your ear,
Crickets crucified
on a table.

Life from life
and death from death.
Two dogs chasing
each other's tails.

Sand hot as lime
scorching pine and pate.
Burning lessons born to hear,
the first and last
was born a jew.

Dust and rain
live on the wind,
and nothing is high
as the morning sky.

Bells ringing over
new snow, while grey skies promise
more. Time to wake up.

Chill winds like knives.
Sausage-fingers swollen up
with stars over head.

Painting the Sky

Blue and grey, purple and gold
painted in wispy brush strokes
streatching across the sky,
washed in sanguine crimson.

Drawn in sketch by a hand of old,
seen through bare branches of old oak.
Life inlaid through watchfull eye
peering past years across the sky.