hesitant moonlight

hesitant moonlight and yr.lover disappears
catlike out the window
tracks in the snow leading
into the wilderness

at night my thoughts wander
ghostlike and snowblind into darkness
onto the mirrory lake
crossing freshly formed ice, as it spiderwebs
and threatens to collapse, beneath
the weight of words
a whisper of breathe

i, like the fox, warily
keeping my tail dry

voice of the bird

winter lanscape devoid of heat
the tranquil plane of ice and snow
a december loneliness
which exists
alone in the forest,
far away from humanity

I seek this seclusion,
fleeing from the sun
breaking a trail of necessity
simple and pragmatic
useful as an axe
as luxurious as a compass

I say to raven,
my best friend--
you are my joy
heroic cackler

as he circles above me
landing in the top
of the highest tree

swimming in the honey

full moonrises into purple ether
metallic shades of blue and magenta
the thanksgiving moon, or beaver moon
according to the almanac,
the season when traps are laid,
moon suspended above the valley's navel
like the pearl in the lotus, disembodied.
This arctic clarity, where heaven touches earth
and the cold blisters the skin like fire
The animal like intensity the urge to stay warm
and keep moving outside of the herd
nusing a hostile distrust of civilizations
I have my doubts about all that exists
outside of the boreal forest,
the cool blue ice that cradles my isolation
I am grateful for this life and like the hunted
constantly outrunning death--
my body is like a mosquito suspended in amber
engorged with wooly mammoth blood
My soul a dragon fly
swimming in the honey

raven craves daylight

and my eternal soul lights upon the snowy branch
and shakes under the silly ravens weight
he first soars in, circles and lands
he puffs his black feathers
the birch branch swoons,
losing a load of snow,
raven preens
then dissapears

chinook

warm wind crawls down the winter slope
wooded birch, spruce,
alder and willow
the furrowed, quilted earth
a place to nest,
hibernate or retreat
can't help but think
of the old trappers
hunkered down
in tiny cabins
--along stalks a moose, stilted--
chewing, sharp tiny forks,
this as i write this poem
looking out the window
into the blue lanscape
he dissapears back into the forest
the noble buck

arctic dawn

pink champaigne and fire
spill from ridge to snow capped ridge
black flap of wings as if the death angel--
no only a raven
were to pluck my soul
or steal my eyes

morning is for dreamers
who, destined to awake
insitst on sleeping in
the winter hibernation
where the sound of wind
blowing snow, a quiet music
that matches the phrasings
of your sorrow

Some enter the wilderness
some return to cities
the caldera
where once civiliztion
met her gentle end--
and then she was burried,
exhumed, excavated,
exquisite,
another story, an apocalpse
a holocaust
the burning memory
of staring into the
blood tinged sun

snowbound

snowbound and the earth is sleeping...
darkness crosses spilling over
into daylight, still frozen.
snowfake beneath the lens
six sided crisp and unique,
no two are alike, yet all
are beautifull as they fall
coming together crystalized
the schism begins on slick surface
the plane where there is no resistance
the liquid pushes apart the ice
and the ice cracks the jar
all is shattered beneath new snow

darkness rising

as daylight descends
lifting the purple curtain
there is little more
that I can become,
midway, not quite though.
sifting grounds of coffee
between my teeth