In the middle of the graveyard,

on the pale and poignant pond,

neighbors scraped the snow away

and everyone is skating masked.

Like the best present

snow circles under the pine,

lovingly wrapped in air.

This daily avalanche,
more than graphs and numbers,
rolling waves of rise over run -

follows a black hole,
follows white thunder.
Some of us will freeze 

on this mountain.

Some will be rescued, dug out
of a spaceless weight, carried
down by brothers and sisters, 

partnering with gravity.

You and I look up, 

do not know what it is like 

to be without air.

Still we ascend
to the unpredictable top.

This house is our shield,
our nest camouflaged,
our skysraper coat,

our duplex umbrella,
our cabin hat and our sunscreen
tiny home.

This house is our yoga pose,
the water we surface from,
sanctuary we pray in.

This house is our plot where
we trowel and prepare rows,
where we look out at the familiar

morning, where we can dig deep to
remove stones and make sculptures
out of them.  This house is where

we hammock and turn pages, where
we practice comedy routines
with our sidekick Moonbeam cat.

This house is where we molt
in spring like last year’s cattail,
where we can catch fire

like a phoenix and break ground
unimpeded like a tulip tree.

Leaf or bird,
seen and heard,
we listen and stare long,
wind or wing,
flutter or song there
on branches they share.

Minnesota marsh,
colors of silver and wheat
yearn and yield for spring

sunflower seeds, black
on snow, like piano keys,
played softly by virtuoso crows

Loons and Lions

Typing a poem about loons
lions keep appearing on the page -

lions fluting over my house,
echoing through the morning marsh,
through my kitchen window,
breaking into my meditation
of making bread.

I run out to see this “lion” flock
in time to hear their diminuendo call,
as if over the African plain,
haunting and velvet
as they disappear.