Winter Formula

Frozen π

The window frame centers the wall, a bas relief of cream against the waves of burnt sienna. Six feet high and three feet wide the window is corniced and crowned by the benevolent gaze of beveled bulls eye rosettes.

The muntin bisects the window into north and south. Each pole is divided by nine, graphing eighteen adjacent worlds each distinct yet sequential.

The soft fog of curtain sketches the surface in cabochons and brilliants.  Within those hollows the concave drops of grey winter light rise up to rim the threaded borders. Minuscule mirrors reflect and magnify the morning composition.

Angels dancing on the head of a pin, each lavender puddle is a universe. Archimedes’ constant reflects from the pattern scattering in parallel arcs of fixed circumference. Echoes falling back, whorls of frozen meringue float down to cover the dark green of cedar bows.

The Shade of Winter

     The pale green grass crunching underfoot is an oddity half way through winter. Frozen drops glitter like diamonds in a multiplied mimicry of the black jeweled sky above. The rising of the pale winter sun leaks wan rays that stir the air sending a haze up across the unnaturally naked fields. January should see the lean wolves of winter race across the land, their voices a howl of wind singing a discordant lullaby for the resting earth. Instead the vagaries of an ill defined term have left us marooned, abandoned on the plane of mud soaked dishabille that greets the dawn of each new day. The hoary dragon of winter, toothless and bewildered is lost somewhere along the path. A damp dementia has clouded the crystal mind leaving will and purpose limp and impotent, a pale shadow of the might that once bore the name.

     Divested of cold cover, exposed and abandoned, the sinew of the earth is laid bare and open to the sky. Shivering under an alien light the burnt umber of loam and soft wool of wood tendon border the ochre wisps of sodden gleanings. The hours melt and pool into one endless grey moment as the ground waits to warm or cool, victim to the whim of this sunken muddy season. Don’t look to spring; he’s a distant hero traveling beyond the horizon. We can no more move forward than back. The sails lay empty and slack waiting for the pace of the season to hurry us towards the vernal equinox. Becalmed, even the sharp suffering of purgatory’s expiation would be a welcome change from this milquetoast limbo.

An Inauspicious Beginning

Soul eater is the name of the January rain grey skies.

The milky clouded eyes of the dead year gaze sightless skyward filtering the day to perpetual twilight. Icy entrails steam as the warm rain falls in acid runnels eviscerating the gentle swells of wind driven snow. Charcoal grey stick bare fingers rend the thick air as the trees grasp for purchase sinking deeper into the weeping flesh of an earth so unexpectedly awakened.

Chicken Little

The sky is falling…

Dying and unremarked by thought or reasoning, a star expands breaching the limits to break apart in infinitesimal fragments. The exodus of that great conflagration, lost and blind, will travel 40 years in a frigid black wilderness to find the sky of this blue jewel.

Minuscule meteorites, bits of star, speed through the atmosphere and the heavenly firmament is lost to view. Battalions of warriors, clad in white and armed with milky swords of ice, drop heavily through the air. A veil falls, mist and windblown, to filter the light in dim shades of grey. No battle cry breaks the silence, only a gentle hiss as each traveler joins the host massed below.

Earthbound at last, here they will rest and wait for the season’s change to join their souls within this new home. At the turning of the sphere they will bathe again in a kindred brother’s warmth.


*This post was originally hosted on another blogging platform (MSN Space to MSN Live and finally WordPress). When the content was transferred the media files were lost. I’ve chosen to add new photos rather than delete the posts. I try to match any updated content to previously posted comments. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t so the comments can seem to be out of context but I don’t want to delete any of them as they are a part of my blogging history.


This stark season of chiaroscuro is leaf barren and ice crystalled.

A black-ice hardtop is a bleak gleam through transparent wind blow.

Arms and fingers, bloodless and naked, jet against the pallid sky.

Shadowy bones pierce the bitter shroud.

Lofty giants and flocks of lambs are laden down under the weight of hoary pearls.

Whisper soft, the night swarms with stinging clouds of raw alabaster ash.

The day wakes to the cry of the crow, black and mournful, harsh against the austere expanse.

New Kid in Town

     Winter is barely come and I can’t help but wish it gone. I miss the beach and the grass and the leaves and the warm gentle wind that the cold has chased away. I miss the ripe and nutty smell of autumn leaves. I miss the soft sweet grass of spring and the brilliant green of fiddle heads as they unfurl in the morning sun. I miss the lingering heat of the sand at the beach as the sun retires for another day. God help me but I miss the humid heat of August with the cicadas screaming murder in the trees and leaving transparent skins hanging like empty corpses from the pine trees at the edge of the yard.
I want to fill my lungs with the smell of flowers and dirt and raspberries and tomatoes. I want to lay face down in the grass and watch the marching formation of ants on parade while the bumblebees buzz a gentle accompaniment as they trundle from flower to flower. I can almost hear the snap of linen as the sheets dance in the breeze. I can almost feel the warmth of the sun on my back. I want to fill my hands up with the good soil of my garden and let it blacken my palms and crust under my nails. I want to sit by the bonfire on a night so clear and star filled that it’s quite easy to believe that I am sitting at the very center of the universe.
I know I might feel differently on a particular winter day. That winter day will be windless and warm. The sky will be clear and the light from the sun will be so bright that the reflection off of the snow will be almost too much to bear. Everything will be crisp and clean, a new and unknown place to explore with mysteries to discover. That day I know I won’t think about the cold and the wet and the sleeping earth.
That day is not today. The ground is unyielding and the sky is grey. Winter, just arrived, seems so weighty and solemn. I miss the passion of the waking, living earth now frozen under the weight of ice and snow. What I wouldn’t give for the light caress of a spring breeze, the heat of a summer night and the sharp kiss of autumn. 

Bird’s Eye Choreography in White

     A bird’s eye view of the yard shows an intricate design of travel and play. Like steps marked off on a dance chart the composition as a whole tells a story that the individual imprints, by the nature of close interpretation, don’t know. Only from above, when viewed from the second story window, does the ballet reveal itself. From one edge of the snow covered stage to the other the choreography is evident in spots and smears and steps and hollows.

     A perimeter path, which is walked in the frigid dark before the house retires for the night, borders the yard. This pas de deux is defined by a rhythm that is quick and light, duty hurried by the outer chill and the promise of a warm bed. Random gestures and sweeps litter the yard; the tempo of varied passage is indicated in depth and distance. The afternoon light paints those steps in drifted hollows of pale blue reflecting the colour of the sky.

     A visitor to the yard has left his signature in hesitant ovals grouped by four. The circles are spaced unevenly as a wary eye and twitching nose determined the speed of the dance. Still the path is straight as it cuts across the driveway running from the winter bare hedge to the pale-blanketed fields beyond.

     Concave rows in different widths record the passage of frozen balls sent spinning across the white expanse. Smaller furrows that end in miniscule piles are the result of an extended search for arctic treasures. Never alone, all these impressions are dueted by the passage of a constant companion, four feet that dance all the steps. Here they are spaced close together in a stately waltz. There the star player has leapt high leaving only the memory of two feet. The path veers and the steps become elongated, spread out by the speed of the dance. As with all ventures of youth and energy the scars remain of inexperience and exuberance. Spinning too fast, the flurry of spills and rolls is noted for all to see.

     There is a stick and a ball under the tree in a hollow that is soft grey and shadowed. Two sets of steps in concert range to the back door and then disappear up the snow-covered stairs to the kitchen.    

     Viewed from the upstairs’ window one can see that the ballet is only on intermission. The snow covered stage waits for the second act. 

White Nightfall

Snow at night comes as a silent secret traveler. Glittering swathes of icy muslin, chiffon and tulle drape the yard and soften the sharp angles. The world is reborn a virgin bride in white.


*This post was originally hosted on another blogging platform (MSN Space to MSN Live and finally WordPress). When the content was transferred the media files were lost. I’ve chosen to add new photos rather than delete the posts. I try to match any updated content to previously posted comments. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t so the comments can seem to be out of context but I don’t want to delete any of them as they are a part of my blogging history.


     Seasons clothe the far-reaching fields. First comes the green, sweet and tender. Bright in the morning of the year, it is followed by the hard accent of that annual noon heralding the change from growth to ripening. Gold is the colour of the orb’s twilight rotation turning to seek its rest. The night is found at last under blankets of white that swaddle the land through the cold barren span of the day’s end.

     Lightening scarred, battle weary, the solitary watcher rides the hours of each year’s day. His gnarled arms, verdant raiment long forgotten, spread in supplication. Let the land rise up in waves. Let the wind and the rain lay old souls low. Grant rest eternal in the whirlpool tide.  Sweet gratitude would welcome that eddy’s embrace, free to slip below the surface, sinking away from light, life and duty. Cry mercy for a lonely guardian. Grant oblivion in the arms of the mother, let the vigil be done at last.