2008-12-24
midwinter
no place to hide it seems from all this cold
just northern sun and wind without warm rain
to ease our judgment of the season's gain
or loss of simple sense in what was told
by no firm purpose or strong will to hold
as true or wise while light makes all so plain
under the grey that is not quite a bane
to our disloyal hearts that are not bold
justice requires that we add up the tale
of many ages in a small black book
in which clear note shall constantly be kept
while eyes examine all the facts that fail
to measure up as beauty when we look
and heart acknowledge that the world has slept
patchy fog
enough to speak here of the patchy fog
in sheeplike huddles moving by the coast
not like the tales in which we were engrossed
in which the princess kissed the urgent frog
and forced him to make good on his big boast
enough to speak here of the patchy fog
we're left to wonder why you need to flog
the dying sun to haste before the ghost
of pale remembrance has gone past the post
enough to speak here of the patchy fog