WREN’S SONG
Snow flurries flutter
As winter wrens mutter
In a wood that’s bare
Of little seed to spare
Old man winter’s come
Cold, cold weather’s home
Spring’s horizon dare
Not for all, for some
HUNGER CAME
Twenty-four varieties ornament the wood
The seed they devour barely stood
As Titan bears down, accumulating
The Songbirds sing, non-culminating
A following dries snow; and icy caveat
The Dove coos, the Blackbirds have it
As the offered seeds diminish
The Blackbirds take flight, finish
With grains replenished on the plate
Cardinals return sans Blackbirds fate
Four and twenty varieties do coexist
Thrush fight among themselves, and hist
As they return through the sprinkling mist
Reaching branches laced with confection, white
The carpet below leaves the ground out of sight
If the frenzy of feeding is indication
Soon to be under heavy accumulation
Twenty-four varieties do ornament the wood
SNOW
Snow arrives with a quiet voice
Snow piles up beyond a choice
Each flake, unique, a flittering
Less the cheep of birds a chittering
A canopy of white does silence now
Precipitates peace with pure avow
And shepherds perfectly a poise
Less the cacophony of the noise
Snow arrives luminous to glisten
Pause, take breath… and listen…
A MASK OF SNOW
It is still green
Remains to be seen
If this will be
The winter we’ll see
A mask of snow, keen.