Love for the Forecaster

clouds behind the trees

Of weather searching for the signature

correcting for the miasma

of the crooked wind season

folding in on time

The supreme seer

picking apart the covenant

between nature and that

hallowed sometimes

hollow heart of hope

Warmth is king

the predictor wears the crown

to the end of the world

of cold


like a preacher

taking God

From the forests

setting her up

in a house of his own

The diviner daring

audacity to

recapture imagination

with warm words

Scattering tepid halos

upon the heads of



Lovers  and

The remianing




Spring is coming

even to my narrow

little valley

I can tell because the post office

is delivering seed catalogs

and  silence

the local vehicle of discussion

When people think you’ve erred

somehow their lives get larger,

Silent when you enter the room

Still, there’s a sadness

when seeds don’t come to

attention – straight and narrow

on the first or second try outside

Blindly swinging at weather

that isn’t there


No shame in a tear shed

As the seedling is brought back inside

put at the table (yet again) to feast

on the love and attention

it failed to imbibe in its rush

to bloom


Inside provides the walls the structure

that can now tame my seed’s

“pathological enthusiasm” –

the stuffing of too much life in soil

too lightly tilled


My Seedling:


Come inside where it’s warm

Do not regret your seed-time

Just learn – reall

Spring is coming


Seed catalogs

brighten winter’s gloom

Leafing the pages I await


Your authentic unrushed bloom

Promises from my garden
Promises from my garden