Collision

A pair of poems

Waiting for Winter

I am parked in my blue mesh chair
Its legs balanced on four rocks I
Collected from scree fields across the northern Rockies
Wrapped in a thick robe and blanket and fleecy pink hat
I gaze at the inky dome above
A streetlight checkers through elm leaves like pinholes in a metal lantern
The whir of tires on the interstate rises as
Engines hum and pull around east the curve of the north hills
I peer west
A house light blinds me to the stars
But the courtyard poplar towers above and flutters its last yellow leaves
Like fingers waving goodbye
A screen door slams
I bring coffee to my lips and wait.

The courtyard poplar

Collision

Mists hang thick over the valley
Blotting the sun.
Damp creeps across empty lots
Where patches of rotten snow soak up morning raindrops
Splashing on leaf piles raked up hours before the blizzard when
Fall crashed into winter.
Road spray puddles on highway shoulders and
Sodden doves nearly collide into power lines.
I watch with cold toes through the kitchen window.

5 am urbanscape. Lower lights: interstate. The upper lights are a pair of runners on Waterworks Hill and don’t be tricked by the light my camera is pretending: it’s absolutely dark outside.