Etchings

In over the dark,

Light settled on the

Bone limbs of branches.

A covering sigh

Of winter’s last whisper.

An overcast came down

To surround our small

House in the wood.

Afternoon winds on the way

To dust off the etchings

Of grace, of the silence.

Yet, for now, I can

Rest my eyes on the

Cold insulation of a

Forest waiting for full

Spring, white to green.

Winter Wedding

Lace draped like a cloth

cut from the clouds

on upturned roots

which lined the roads.

Crystals of symmetry,

like linen sleeves

slip down the arms

of sleeping trees.

A canopy formed,

a wedding veil

suspended on the wind.

I heard Pachelbel’s canon

as I stood in the aisle.