In Which The Annoying Side Of Winter Comes Early

O wind, I've had enough of you. The snow

That fell so lightly last week blew away.

The trash you blew into my small yard, though,

Won't budge now. All of it is here to stay

Until I trudge outside and pry it loose

From plant stalks, branches, fenceposts - these all clutch

At what they've caught, tenaciously. Profuse

Enough, the snow we'll have -- too much,

Some folk will say -- but it at least can hide

The plastic bags and flyers, wrappers, junk

That flies around, breeze-tossed, both far and wide

Until it comes to me. Here comes a hunk

Of Taco Bell refuse right now. Come back,

Dear snow, and cover up the verve I lack.

In Which I Do Not Enjoy My Day's Drive One Bit

"May 25th, so put your parka on,"
My buddy said as I pulled out of town.
You'd think this was sarcasm; you'd be wrong.
A sheaf of thundersnow was coming down
So thick and bad I could but barely see.
The windshield wipers weren't up to the job
For one, and for another, there must be
A better word for what that sky did. Sob!
The world grows tiny on such trips, down to
The pavement and the mucky, murky air:
No sight of all of country driven through,
Each quarter-mile its own tough challenge. There
Is nothing like Wyoming in the spring.
No really: there is not any such thing.

In Which It May Not Yet Be Spring

My lilacs bow like Atlas 'neath the weight

Of many inches of wet, sloppy snow.

It's far from Fortean to have, so late,

Such quantity dumped on us, but, you know

I'm really done with this. O Baltimore,

Weird city I shall visit just weeks hence,

Please tell me you shall have sunshine in store

And balmy weather. My wish is intense

To feel true springtime! But I should be glad:

The rototilling didn't go as deep

As shall be needed; moisture won't be bad

For this, our effort. Meanwhile I'll just keep

My snow boots and my shovel handy. Sigh.

Just months ago snow so gladdened my eye...

In Which Muck Is Mucked

We know that April's cruel, but could it crush
Our spirits so by any other means
Than snow that falls and turns, right off, to slush
And stays that way, at least until the freeze
At nightfall comes? The daffodils poke from
The sluggish soil, but soon do wear a coat
Of icy muck; would turn my fingers numb
To try to free them from it, and my throat
Already burns; a springtime cold is mine.
I peer outside while coughing, but I must
Remind myself that soon all will be fine,
And all this moisture will keep down the dust.
And when all of you others say good-bye
To blossoms, in the future mine still lie.

In Which No One Surpasses The Weather Gods At April Fool's Day Prankery

For April Fool's, Cheyenne is getting punked.

We're inches deep in fresh new thundersnow.

I've just come in from shov'ling and look dunked

In someone's pool, all soakng wet. I know

It's spring, and so do you, but we forgot

To tell Wyoming's Mother Nature rep

(Although it's just as likely as is not

That Spring is simply playing hard to get;

She always was a tease). My canine friend,

Dear Molly, stands poised scared by the back door.

She loves the snow; indeed 'twould never end

Were she in charge, but just as my own poor

Dear doggie ventures outside for to play

The thunder booms and scares my girl away.

In Which My Wounded Dignity Is Soothed By The Music Of The Spheres

Spring snow is wet and sloppy, and so slick

Today's word really ought to just be "fall"

(The verb and not the season: quite some trick

To make it through the winter, almost all

Of it, and not once take a digger, but

Do so today, spectacularly, too!).

I don't mind, though; my Exoplanet nut,

Roald has set my mind at much ease through

This music that he found, for list'ning while

One gazes as the sky and contemplates

The worlds that spin out there. I have to smile

Despite this bone-deep chill. A hot bath waits

But not just yet, I'm digging all these tracks,

And it's high time I kick back and relax.

February

I like the snowfall, how it makes us stop,

Makes us stay where we were when it began

(If we are wise), how it can make us drop

Our plans and schemes, at least during its span

Of closed-down roads and endless, downward fall.

Late February, there's no holiday

Distracting us. It's winter, and that's all,

And it's enough. We've time in which to play

Within our minds. It's pointless to complain,

Get anxious, focus on some other place

Where we think we just really must be. Fain

We pause and contemplate th'actual space

In which we find ourselves, hemmed in by white

And drifted water, cov'ring so much blight.

In Which I Cry Uncle

I couldn't find it, deep beneath the snow

The feeder that the birds and wind knocked down

And buried sometime during last night's blow.

I'm sure it's much the same all over town.

My pupils down to pinpoints in the glare,

My fingers freezing in their gloves, I tried

To dig a path for postmen, cars - I care

That people try to do their jobs despite

Conditions. They were pitiful enough,

My efforts; I could not sustain too much,

Could not draw breath sufficient for the tough,

Laborious removal of, as such

A day's and night's accumulation. I'm

Still dizzy as I type out this here rhyme.

In Which A Snowy Day Sets Me To Dithering

Contrary impulses have seized me, and

I'm transfixed, by the window, in their grips.

I still am sick, could barely lift a hand

To heave and shovel snow - though it's the hips

And legs that should do that work - yet I would

So dearly like to go play in that fresh, white

Inviting snow. My skis are - to the good -

In Saratoga, so that's out. All right

But just a walk? A bike ride? A quick romp

With Molly in the park? I really ought

To stay home and get well at last. I stomp

An angry foot at this, though. Yes, I've got

A poor track record, being sick and then

Undoing efforts to get well again.

In Which Wintry Weather Makes Me Reflect

I am no Bonaparte; my armies fight

Their best in winter's snows and wind and cold.

Alone I stand out in the freezing night

And look up at the stars and feel how old

This world is and is not. Dichotomies

Like these are occupying me of late.

I'm of the cast of mind such that it please,

Not anger me to sit and contemplate,

While crystals made of ice pummel and sting

My face, how things and people never are

As simple as they seem. Each little thing

They do results from infinite, bizarre

Tempestuous processes, chaos-tossed

Until at last they're frozen fast as frost.

In Which A Power Failure Gives Me Pause

A power failure, but in far from black

Do I sit here; the glare from off the snow

Lights up my house so I squint. I could track

The world outside: A hand-cranked radio

Sits here. Instead I peer deep down inside

And let myself feel all that's going on,

What is and what could be. I cannot hide

In shadows on a day like this. I'll don

Soon coat and boots, my new sunglasses, and

Ride on Deep Blue to where my work awaits,

But now my pen and Field Notes guide my hand

To lead me to some stillness. 'Tis the Fates,

Not I, who should be brooding. Let it be.

There's nothing I can do but wait and see.

In Which I Take Deep Blue Through His Snowy Predawn Paces

I'm not the first to ride my bike in snow --
I'm sure in China it's done ev'ry day --
But still I feel that I've the right to crow
A little bit. I knew that I could stay
At home a little longer and just drive
To work this morning; everybody does.
That doesn't jibe, though with my mojo, style,
Or mental illness (names vary): I was
Determined to keep pedaling and know
That once I wimped out one day I was done.
So off I went, a cycling Eskimo,
And truly, I must say that I had fun,
My teeth set in a grin few could surpass.
No wonder Brent said that I'm #purebadass!

In Which The Seasons Change Very Swiftly

Just yesterday I wrote of the approach
Of Autumn, felt and seen by many signs.
I missed it once again; winter doth broach
Our talk already as the month declines.
Today's the equinox if one believes
The calendar, but, in Wyoming, learn:
Already we have snow. I'm sure the leaves
Would have been pretty if allowed to turn,
Likewise, the crabapples that I've watched grow
In my backyard might have made lovely jam
Had they a chance to ripen. But I know
Such hopes are most quixotic, as I am
Each April when I dream of such. Alas!
How swiftly those Fall minutes seem to pass!

BONUS SONNET: Night Of The Collie

A normal night was how this ev'ning seemed;

I even had a good ride on my bike.

But then in Molly's eye a blood drop gleamed.

Her patient gaze tore through me like a spike.

Good old Cheyenne, on Sunday night no vets

Are taking calls; to Fort Collins they say

Must after hours folk with injured pets

Repair or wait til 9 a.m. next day.

She start swatting at her injury

And seemed to tear it open that much more.

So off we went, two pals, my dog and me

On south to find the truth behind the gore.

It's minor, I am glad now to report.

But getting home was its own winter sport.

In Which I Scoff Like A Nordic Atheist Would At These April Snowstorms

Three roosters have to crow in three locales:
Fjalar, Gullinkambi and the black,
Ere I start to believe those rationales
Which say that summer's never coming back.
Garmr's still chained and quiet in his pit,
And Jörmungandr's still wet and asleep!
Naglfar still is harbored and that shit,
Old Loki, still is chained up way down deep,
The serpent's venom burning up his face
When Sigyn pauses to clean up the mess.
No, there is still no cause for me to pace,
Though snow does stymie April's spring progress.
The three years' winter is not yet at hand;
No matter what the bards say 'round the land.

In Which An Idle Ass Keeps Getting Kicked At Work Or Play

My dad is here to visit, and that means,

A restless, wild work ethic with two feet

Does stalk my halls and rooms in ratty jeans,

A tool in hand and goals he seeks to meet.

We've leveled up my old washing machine,

We've tried and failed to clean the furnace vent,

We've shoveled so much snow it seems obscene

(Especially for April!). Now I'm bent

And sore while he keeps asking, well what more

Should we be doing with this idle time?

Hooray for Mom, who said pinochle or

Some dominoes, would that not be sublime?

We played a while, and they both kicked my ass,

Thank goodness it's now cocktail hour at last!

At Suppertime, I Muse On My Crock Pot

My parents are still here due to the snow

That's falling fatly on us in Cheyenne

And to my invitation to do so;

Round Two of hospitality's the plan.

It's cocktail hour as I start to wind up

The preparation of our fine repast:

A chicken dish with apples I've lined up

Since 'round the crack of noon. I cut up fast

An onion and some garlic cloves; I thawed

Some frozen chicken and some orange juice;

I mixed that juice with spices and, no fraud

Dumped all into a crock pot, turning loose

The slow heat on the food, right then, at noon.

Now to add in some apples; ready soon!

My New House Had A Surprise In Store For Me

The month of April's cruelest, Thomas said
(By Thomas I mean Eliot, T.S.).
While he meant more its goading from the "dead"
The dormant plants and flowers, I'll profess
A crueler face of April is by far
The storms of spring, the snowfall and the wind
That drives it into drifts, buries one's car,
And barricades one's house. Have I so sinned
In gloating o'er the beauties of my home
That I should so be cursed and have to dig
Through waist-deep snow to leave? Oh how the foam
Did fleck my face as I fought 'gainst those big
Waist-deep drifts with a less than perfect tool
A plastic shovel! Yeah, I'm super-cool.

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.