In Which The New Year Blows Blustery

White holidays are back, and so begins
The long and messy slog back to the sun.
This last day of the year blasts off our skins
With bitter winds and cold. There's little fun
To be had out-of-doors tonight: streets of ice
Assure nothing but falls and crashes -- yet
I'm sure there's plenty whose pursuit of vice
And silliness will lead them out. I'll let
Them have my fun. It's home for me and mine;
Tomorrow's just another work-day. You
Who venture forth, do hoist a glass of wine
On my behalf, and I'll think of you, too,
Especially my far-flung loves. Someday
I hope to pass these times with you, some way.

Good Bye, Good Weather

This time last night, 'twas horizontal snow

And I could not see 'crost the street for it.

Today it's simply wind. I watch it blow

From safe inside where I shiver and sit,

(The vestiges of illness plague me still)

Behind a keyboard with a cup of tea;

I pretty sure this week is what will kill

Our Indian Summer. How long will it be

Ere just one layer of clothes will sure suffice

For bike commuting? How long till my skin

Can bare before the elements? Soon ice

Will force me to slow down; I'll pedal in

At half the speed to work, in darkness, long

Before dawn's chorus warms up its first song.

In Which I Regret A Choice Somewhat

Outside the glare is fierce; a strong, dry breeze

Blows harsh across the asphalt and the grass

Is parched. Three-thirty; eighty-five degrees

And I can't get myself up off my ass.

My head aches just to look out windows, and

It's only June as yet. In some despair,

Remembering my thoughts, I understand:

I made the wrong choice back in April. There

Were still spots on the graveyard shift. I chose

These normal hours, must endure the heat

And dust both ways on my bike, unlike those

Who've made the cool of evening their beat.

Next summer, note to self; the wee small hours

Are kinder when one's of limited pow'rs.

In Which I Enjoy A Rainy Bike Commute

"I get a buzz from being cold and wet,"
Pete Townsend sings, and I can but agree.
How else explain the soaking that I get
When on a rainy day, I choose to be
A bike commuter. While the cars slow down,
Their windshields fogged and blurred, their drivers mad,
I speed on down the Greenway, love my town
For giving me this back route. Bits are bad,
I will not lie; the tunnels 'neath Dell Range
Are flooded and detours I have to make
Force me to deal with angry drivers. Change
Is good for me, though; just means I must take
Some extra care. Meanwhile the water pours
And I soar blithely through the great outdoors.

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 My Least Favorite Season Decides To Start

Another reason that I do not love

To live where I do happened just a bit

Ago. The warnings were quite faint above

My music as I took my gloves off, quit

A-hacking at my backyard overgrowth

And betook to enjoy some TV shows.

Instead I cranked the radio and both

Laughed and whined; there may be tornadoes!

'Tis nearly 32 years since one ripped

Through town in '78; we well may

Be due for yet another. We are gripped

Firm in the angry glove of Thor. Someday

These warnings might apply to me and mine,

But for today, I do assure: I'm fine.

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 Is Considered Mile Marker 332

The interstate fogged in across the top,
Just me and near one hundred giant trucks,
We slow sometimes to something like a stop;
A wreck up here gets messy and my luck's
Been on a streak of awesome; if it runs
Out here I'm in big trouble. One mistake
However small, begets much bigger ones
As trucks crash into crashes. How I quake
Just driving past a milepost where once burned
So many trucks at such an intense heat
The pavement melted and eight people earned
Their tickets out of this life. Caution's meet
As I traverse the area; I've got
More now to live for than I ever sought!

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 I Gloat Over A Great Chance To Watch The International Space Station

My Twitter feed comes with a special "twisst":
An application that alerts me when,
Like Horkheimer I look up, I'd have missed
A special sight if facing wrong. I've been
A gawker at the skies since childhood, and,
Like many thought I'd be an astronaut.
That didn't happen, but in quite a grand
Tradition I watch ships launch and you ought
Not be surprised I sometimes crane my neck
And watch for our space station overhead.
Tonight at 6:07 a bright speck
Will come from west-northwest. I'm oft in bed
When such a chance occurs, or there are clouds.
Tonight though, I shall see it; nothing shrouds!

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 I Take My Last Road Trip Over The Range

The road will likely close soon for the year,

Wyoming 130 across the Range

Called Snowy, and it will do so, I fear

Before I may return to it. So strange

Today to see the aspens' hues in gold

And snow accumulated on the ground.

This last trip's memories will have to hold

Me till next spring. I rolled my windows down

Despite the cold, to let in those last smells

For my and Molly's pleasure, let my eyes

Go all unshaded, killed the radio. Spells

Of purest bliss would take me. Such good-byes

Are for all of the senses. But hellos

Await me, too, ahead, in winter's snows.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Long To Be Outdoors All The Time In Autumn

It cannot be the smell of slow, cold death,
That drives me e'er outdoors this time of year
To exercise and draw in one deep breath
And then another, can it? Yet I fear
Sometimes that my deep love of Fall's just that:
A love affair with all that does decay,
Dry up, fall off, freeze, rot and then go splat,
Or just detach and gently blow away.
But summer's sun pins me down like a bug,
It burns my bare skin, gives me headaches, brings
Unwanted gawkers out who'll see me. Ugh.
Now as it wanes I think not of those things,
Just climb aboard my bike, relish the chill
And see how quickly I can climb that hill.

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 Riding Beneath Two Skies

I left the office, stood in pouring rain.

Ahead of me those dark, forbidding skies

Loomed angry, as though I had caused the pain

That leaked from all those clouds into my eyes.

Behind me, though, as I pulled far away

Out of the shadow of the building there

Was perfect blue and sunshine. I did stay,

Admiring the demarcation where

The two skies met, a moment, then turned on

To Yellowstone Ave, already soaked through,

Hair plastered to my face and eyebrows drawn

In concentration. All I sought was to

Turn east onto the Greenway and to see

The rainbow that would show my path to me.

BONUS SONNET: Wet And Grey, A Perfect Day

A grey sky makes me love the landscape more;
The greens and browns of it stand out so well
Against the steely dome above. Before,
A clear sky held me firm under its spell,
My eyes turned up and lost in all that blue,
The lazy drift of clouds holding my gaze.
With that distraction gone, I turn down to
The Earth around me, taking in the plays
Of heightened color. Then, too, there's the scent
Of misty rain, and of the moistened soil
And vegetation. This is what I'm meant
To know today, which nothing now can spoil.
A drizzly morning's bike commute lays down
A tone for my day: bliss in which to drown.

BONUS SONNET: In Which The Customary Closet Is Eschewed... For The Clothes Dryer?

I have a dog, and Molly is her name.

A tale or two I've told of her before.

I now may add to her e'er-growing fame

For cowardice, the following: Of yore,

When thunder's rumbles have occurred,

E'en ere their sensing by mere human ears,

To hide has been her instinct, though absurd;

Our house is large and sturdy. Molly's fears

Will brook no consolation, though. At most

Such times this collie-chicken mix has made

Her shelter in a closet. There, a ghost

In black and white she's cowered and she's stayed

Until bribed with a nom. But now the dryer

Seems safer? Or does she seek lint attire?

What's It Sound Like, Indeed

The pitter-patter of four collie feet,

And thuds as she finds a good place to hide,

Alert me even more so than the beat

And drum of thunder, that I must abide

Another thunderstorm. At last a flash

Is visible from my seat at my desk.

They're brief but powerful, these storms; alas,

Though, little rain accomp'nies them out west

(This June so far's had plenty rain but it's

Anomalous that way). Speaking of sound,

The Mud Room of Squee brought on quite a blitz:

Blue Snowflake, welcome to my toybox. Found

On Amazon, and harnessed soon to make

Some sounds to cause th'internet to quake.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Scream Like Kirk At Khan After Checking The Schedule At Work

I was to take my Jack to Logan Ave
Tomorrow before I headed to work.
I'd hoped perhaps they'd fix him and I'd have
Him back by shift's end. Lo the fates did smirk.
We've changed things up, as far as schedules go.
My shift now starts at six-thirty a.m.
The change was next week, I had thought, but no!
Tomorrow is the day. I cannot stem
The tide of screams my muscles now emit,
As, knowing that Deep Blue is my recourse,
And that all winter I got not a whit
Of exercise and that now, by main force
No matter what the weather, we shall ride
To work and back before we've really tried.

Vernal Equinox, Hmm? Maybe Somewhere Else

Oh, and to think that only yesterday
I sat right here, seed catalogs in hand,
A-choosing plants as though it were near May
And time to sow a garden on my land!
Today the horizontal slow flies by
To mock my dreams and hopes and make me stash
Those catalogs. But I refuse to cry
Or throw those pretty booklets in the trash.
At some point soon this crap has got to end.
I don't believe in Fimbulvetr (or
In much besides, at this point, O my friend);
But know that I have been a damn fool for
The Ides of March, or something. I must wait
Until the real spring comes, as always, late.