Numbing Days

Odyssey of ice

The northern trails I follow

Call out through the forest, bare branches ring hollow

Timbers littered with standing dead

In the mute season, we all look the same

Dread grey, sleet white, frostbite black

The long path

Some don’t come back



The season takes hold

Puts me in my place

February comes, blizzards in its’ wake

Winds shaking this old house

Temperatures plummet

I’ll try to wait it out

Doubt creeping like the cold

Cutting to the bone

The season takes hold

The Ice Below

Skies are mute and grey

Sun has all but gone

Clouds span from horizon to horizon and beyond



Lids pull over eyes


Diving into sky

Overhead, the surge and roll seem endless

Search the bleak expanse, where lost crews are stranded

Another night at the bottom of the world

Awaken, again into the cold

The Northern Desert

New year, just as frigid as last week

More winter months ahead

Ice in heavy sheets

Sleet to muddy the eye

Blankets of snow

Bed of another kind

Slip beneath time’s flow

Season of darkness

When frost bites at the windows


This desert of the north cold


Arms crossed, perched upon an ice box

Rod tucked under arm

Cold days of early winter

Fingers feeling numb

Somewhere deep in thought

Broken only for a moment as the line goes taut

The clock sets

Lost under horizon

Marking the end

Homeward goes the fisherman


A breath of air, exhaled against glass

Figure of eight, crude face, traced as seconds pass

While away the morning

Sun peeks over treetops

Greeting me less warmly

Adorned with wool and fleece

Cold nips at my fingers and settles in my feet

Sleepy memories I’d rather put to rest

Rise in the street, shake ice from hair with hands

Already cold to the touch

Free coffee in the lobby of a bank, with some luck

To the back lot for a spell

Roll a cigarette

Snap back to here and now

Shade of Winter

Reaching out into light

Cold night air, clinging at the shadows

Flowers in the door yard

Beauty of the fall

A hard Winter’s warning

Mid autumn morning heeds the call

Frost stalling for a moment

Lingering in darker places

Soon to mist, then gone

Traceless, weightless vapors

Chased off by the Sun


Come in from the cold

This old house may not be pretty

Wind through gaps and cracks

Old plaster patches crumbling

Thatch holding back the ice

Providing warmth and lodgings

Dust bunnies and brown mice

Home fires all their own

This place may not be pretty, but it seems to have good bones