December, being the last month of the year, cannot help but make us think of what is to come.
Trees lose their leaves in blizzards like these.
So I am not a broken heart. I am not the weight I lost or miles or ran and I am not the way I slept on my doorstep under the bare sky in smell of tears and whiskey because my apartment was empty and i...
A cold wind was blowing from the north, and it made the trees rustle like living things.
You can't undo loss. You can't unmake a mistake.
The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow...
It is growing cold. Winter is putting footsteps in the meadow. What whiteness boasts that sun that comes into this wood! One would say milk-colored maidens are dancing on the petals of orchids. How co...
I'm pretty lost in becoming all this frost. Bitter, like Winter. Strung-out like a string of pearls.
We read the pagan sacred books with profit and delight. With myth and fable we are ever charmed, and find a pleasure in the endless repetition of the beautiful, poetic, and absurd. We find, in all the...
I'm falling apart, one part after another. Falling down on the world like snow. Half of me is already on the ground, watching from below.
Groundhog found fog. New snows and blue toes. Fine and dandy for Valentine candy. Snow spittin'; if you're not mitten-smitten, you'll be frostbitten! By jing-y feels spring-y.
