Long after November has been swallowed by the gray clouds of December
and placid lakes are shrouded in a thin veil of ice
long after the skies are free from anxious geese and their v-shaped migration
I sit in denial
wearing the mask of renunciation
and playing my game of make believe
This time, this year
winter will choose to stay at home
in her frozen world of ice and snow
the journey is long
and her visit unwelcome
this time, this year
she will dance and twirl under the frigid glow of the northern lights
and leave me to my summer day
Between Seasons
It's late August and I am between seasons
ever mindful of winter
the cicada's cry has taken on a strange reverence
and each fading bloom becomes a temple of summer
soon the leaves will be down
the branches bare
soon the warm hills of green
will become cold, lifeless breasts of snow
I am between seasons
and like love that holds onto the dying embers of passion's fire
I take pleasure in small gestures of hope and delight
I am between seasons
and seek the strength see my way to the other side
July
July is a woman of clear midwestern water
conceived in cool October winds
a fair haired northern daughter
Her dreams are held aloft
by sun kissed summer skies
that sing to us from high above
of the blue within her eyes
Time has touched her gracefully
she retains the blush of spring
the years have brought the gift of flight
and the strength to take to wing
Ever green remain the days
that adorn her month of birth
July walks under cloudless nights
that blanket summer’s earth
Somewhere
Somewhere it is raining
and somewhere the sun must shine
but out my window
the snow falls as the tiny feathers of eiderdown
and chilly winds disturb the slumber
of snow laden trees
Somewhere waves endlessly break
on diamond-glass beaches
somewhere roses bloom and robins sing
but here in the northlands
somewhere is far, far away
and lives only in the dreams
of this winter weary man
April 10
Funny how the years slip by
only yesterday I was sixteen
restless and anxious
with all of importance before me
and little of worth behind
Photographs of a distant me
time held captive in black and white
a child's innocent smile
cheeks smudged with dirt and grime
I don't remember growing up
I gaze in the mirror at a face
touched by the passions of life
still restless
but less anxious
learned in the mistakes of youth
yet willing to make them all over again
for another day in the game of life
Spring Comes Slow
Spring comes slow to the north country
here mother nature drags her winter weary heals
through piles of slushy, dirty snow
skies that should be clear and blue
hang gray and low with clouds
trees that should be green with leaves
stand brown with stark and naked branches
Still
deep inside I feel the stir of change
the bite of cold is less severe
the winds carry the damp and musty smells of new life
frozen ground gives way to soft and sticky mud
Spring comes slow to the north country
yet patiently I await her warming touch
and the promise of the seasons
that only in death shall life be reborn
and only in death shall we learn and grow
Untitled
I am not afraid to face myself each morning
I am not afraid to look into the eyes of a man
so very far from boyhood
Older than my father
when I called my father old
still younger than the man I'll be
when my story is finally told
I look upon my life in a ponderous way
as one who has awoken from a long, restless dream
to find he's grown wings in the night
Where once I ran from aging
now we meet in quiet embrace
the frightened boy of yesterday
has found a man stands in his place
Each day I choose a course in life
that carries me forward
never behind
I seek the path that takes me where
both young and old
are intertwined
March Winds
March winds stir the leaves of last September
uncovered by the sun of an early spring
long forgotten under a blanket of snow
they blow past my feet in measured frenzy
as small reminders of life's unfinished tasks
I Read Your Poems of Spring
I read your poems of spring
the rebirth of life
and awakening of nature's children
I read your poems of spring
where warming rains repaint the world with green
and wash away the hills of brown
But here in the northland
it is winter still
not the deep winter of middle January
when the land is gripped by frightful cold
and the arctic winds roll down from the Canadian prairies
but winter still
Here in Minnesota
as February fades to March
the snows are piled high
the skies are gray and cloudy
the ground too hard and frozen
for the sweet crocus to break on through
here in Minnesota
the skies are filled with cawing crows
and the robin's song is far away
I read your poems of spring
and take heart that someday they may be mine
I read your poems of spring
and smile a cold and weary smile
as I face another winter day
October
The wind along the river speaks of cold and darkened days
as the trees that line the water shed their leaves of summer’s green
the sun that once shown brightly is lost behind the autumn clouds
and the fading flowers hide until the distant spring
Weary pass these days of late October
as the earth settles for her long and somber sleep
I draw inside the last of summer
the memory of renewal I shall always keep
