In Which I Fall Again And Again

Ere dawn and crossing a dark parking lot,

On Sunday morn, most gingerly I stepped,

On packed down snow and ice I saw -- I've got

A good idea of where that is; have kept

From slipping all this winter, save last week

On Friday when I landed on my bum

In that snowbank before my car. A squeak

Of shoe on ice and I was down, but, numb

I rued it and moved on. But then came this

New incident: a damp sidewalk before

The entrance fooled me and ere I could hiss

Or scream, right down I went, right by the door.

My shoulder took the weight, then took a twist

As, trying to get up, up's what I missed.

In Which I Wonder At Wicked Water

Two hydrogen, one oxygen; that's all

A water molecule contains. It's just

So simple. In a cup, a pool, rainfall

It's strange enough, though still innocuous.

But should it freeze, there seems to be no end

To mayhem. People slip and cars may crash

That cross it. Then consider, too: the blend

Of alcohol and ice cubes brings on brash

And indecorous manners. But for me,

Why, water is most wicked when it hangs

As icicles from rooflines, menacing,

And looming o'er our heads in heavy gangs,

Assailants and cruel weapons both; they cling

But lightly to their perches, waiting for

A hapless soul's approach to the front door!

In Which I Believe I'm Staying In Tonight After All

Martinis with the girls, that was my plan
To celebrate what is my Friday night.
But as I find a window and I scan
The snowy streets, one fact doth come to light:
What now is fluffy snow will get packed down
By rush hour's vast herd of cars and trucks
Until quite nearly ev'ry road in town
Could double as a hockey rink. Aw, shucks.
I do have errands that had best not wait,
But they can happen ere sunset and then
It's best that I head home. T'will be too late
By then to venture safely out again.
Perhaps if holidays weren't here to cause
A surge in drunken drivers I'd not pause.

A Meditation on Winter's Sharp and Painful Beauty

In wintertime I often am inspired
To lyricism when, so late at night,
It starts to snow. It sometimes has transpired
That, although I'm not overfond of white,
I find myself quite nearly overcome
By all the calm, still beauty of the scene.
That's only when the wind has refrained from
Refining those snowflakes to razor-keen
And wounding missles -- or when, unlike now,
The glare bounced off the snow won't leave me blind
Just as my feet hit ice and, like a plow
In grace, I slide a yard on my behind.
At least, so dazzled, I don't have to see
Who all is there to watch and laugh at me.

Rude Awakenings Won't Be This Rude Much Longer

Some morning's it's worthwhile to try and sleep,
E'en though the workday beckons 'crost the hours,
E'en though the melatonin's failed to keep
The sleeper down to recoup all her powers.
But she was wide awake at 1 A.M.,
Awakened by her border collie's moans,
From drinking of the kitchen's "rain" again,
Her need to go as subtle as her groans.
The predawn chill, the parking lot, the ice,
Th'insistent pulling toward the pooping grounds,
All act in concert to exact a price,
Along with all the gloomy predawn sounds,
To fill my head with wishes for a yard
And make my try at more sleep rather hard.