light as feathers

like a man adrift

in a sea of down

and coming in

found my pocket

was full of snow

of disparate bits of flavor

into something new

the goal

to make poems

in this way

wingtips on snow

are a strange calligraphy

I wish to read

within cliche

mind’s eye is limited

by all this

uncertainty

I can count each flake

for now

simple tasks become meaningful

from branches long bare

in long rows, pockmarked

dust settles uneven

in places left untouched

how long before the random looks

deliberate?

I saw it tug at the woman’s sleeve

blow into her ear

and kick at her feet

she left

and I was next in line

the spider’s web

that caught on my collar

as if it were waiting for me

all along?

it’s shadow is blue

winter paints with it’s own palette

the moon swung a bit

wide

–

february

I noticed our reflections

in the stars

and tried not to look

–

march

I tried juxtaposition

–

april

there were times

when april

ceased to be

–

may

aster in morning

paintbrush in sunset

simple sky

–

june

I tried getting close

–

july

I felt far away

–

august

angles to try

–

september

a million envelopes

sealed

–

october

there was fog

–

november

taught me how to see light

–

december

taught me to wait