1.2.13    That Which Is Not Enough

     Silent, outside, while the old dog, missing her car trips due to such cold, takes stock of the smells of wildlife. Together we perilously venture along snowblower paths, the iced ground sleek beneath pad and foot alike.

     The moon, enormous, hovering just at treeline, as if perusing what earthly parts will be revealed next by its textural luminous light.

     We walk up to the hill, past the compost, she nuzzles the mosses, everpresent, she cocks her small head, wise sightless eyes upward, scenting the molecules from far up the mountain, from far below us in the ravines and swiftly, endlessly passing by upon the silent river below.

     We walk, but it does not satisfy, she smells and digs carefully with old clawed foot, but still it is not enough. Before we leave for work, and after going out, having a delectable breakfast, she stands in the kitchen, she comes upon us in the bathroom, she arrests us in the hallway, unmistakable her venture- to be brought out into the car, feel the sway and movement as it takes flight over familiar roads, to sense the direction and timing so familiar to her. To his office, to the store, to the river for a walk, to the parking place to wander down the favored sidewalk filled with wondrous smells and dog pee to pee upon in a great temerity of delicious dominance.

     But time and again, it does not happen, these wonderful daily events, as it is too cold to be an old dog, left in a car, for any length of time. So she stalks us, she questions, she is left wanting from our walks down the hill , by the range or around the petty walkways of our large land tract. I know.

     So I have promised her some drives, this weekend, simply for her benefit. Pack in the best sites. The parking/sidewalk/dog pee place, the ride to the University, and small walk-about, the saunter at my office to inspect all goings on and come upon the path of the young possum, venturing forth just last night, and possibly an errant and meaningless drive to a store, any store, maybe Dave's, where she can pee on the island outside, be pulled by all matts to avoid further 15 year old lady marking, smell about the treat aisle, and clamber back into the car with some irreplaceable but chewable thing to guard, avidly, from unseen felines, when we finally get home.

1.4.13 Each Millennium a Crone

Feel the wind
whirling round rooftops
pushing away footsteps
plying you from the door

Hear the wind
sighing through bare branches
lilting along ravines
swooning down the hills

Smell the wind
fresh with what was distant
filled with unseen
pungent woodland stream

Touch the wind
sipping from your fingers
rippling past your squinted face
wildebeest caught in hair

Close your eyes
be still now your body
wind that rocks the earth around
wind that carries molecule and sound
wind that breathes and sings and moans
each decade a goddess
each millennium a crone

12.29.12 Taken

Moving in rhythm

wood stacked

brush cleared

children grown

An erasable siren

pulls through those trees

bared of leaves

taken by the wind

12.15.12 Grieving for Connecticut

When I was young and in the mountains
I though of the harm 
that comes and that goes
each in its own way
each in its own time
as I walked along no path at all

When I was young and in the mountains
out by the deep forest well we found
Cougar tracks and the
mere sense of a steel -muscled-
butter-soft-furred creature
inimitable strength
surviving in those valleys
which warmed me

When I was young and in the mountains
I knew people harmed each other, I knew
that to be was to somehow
assert instead
that we can unharm ourselves we
can choose another way but
sometimes some of us
cannot

12.30.12      Absolutely Good Enough

Ooh, it was cold on the river this afternoon.

Went slogging along, after cleaning my office in prep for tomorrow's clients.

Two large groups of Canadian Geese, shifting in the water, finally to take flight, their golden bellies glowing in the sunset as they pass by, silent, overhead.

 Bundled up, I could have gone on forever, following the powerful old course of the aged Connecticut. Can't even recognize your fellow bundled up neighbors, doing their own passionate slogging, leaning against the wind, the white caps veering wildly across  the waves, the small tornadoes of wind and snow twirling their way across the sleeping fields.

Here we have a new year coming, and I am preparing.

Sometimes we are not here long, or as long as we assume we will be. Often there is news of wonderful people we have known who are gone or about to be. And here we are, being human, just doing the best we can, relishing this day. Myself, I think that is absolutely good enough.