Pergola

I stand
stalwart against the elements –

wind and snow and frozen earth –

my four legs planted square
and observe my dominion.

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The gnarled vines bared by winter’s breath
circle up and around and snap back
high over my latticed roof,
and create a tangled haven against the knife-like chill.

In this woven refuge

my winged companions
huddle fluffed and round;
suddenly lift and swoop as one –
quickly cutting up through the cold-thick air,

then floating down softly –
up quick, then down slow –
like billowing skirts
teased by the wintry breeze.

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As the day grows brighter
I gather the shadows beneath me
and let the sun pour warmly into the haven above.

Beneath me the long grasses bend their heads,
their wheaten beards burdened by delicate cotton fluffs.

The blood-red branches of the dogwoods
slash through the quiet whiteness.
Twisty sumac limbs tipped by tapered crimson tufts

dance their serpentine forms through
crisp blue-gray corner shadows.
Pines older than earth stand patiently

beneath their frosted whiskers.
Proud cedars, too, are daubed by snow.

​

As the sky relinquishes its light

and gathering clouds
reflect the pinkish glow
of street corner lamps,

the air around me is suddenly filled

with dancing rose-white flakes

swirling up and back
flitting across and settling

dove-like

on all I see.

​

I sigh into the rising wind
as the hollow toll of tubular bells

sounds in this sacred solitude.


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