The tender part of January

January is tender just now,

not knowing why or how

ice melts slow, and snow is no-show;

it may not be so, tomorrow.

Grayness yawns from the sleepy sky,

while dripping branches cry,

lulling leafless hardwoods to sleep.

Beneath the leafy deep, crawly critters creep.

They hunker down 'til spring,

and whatever that might bring.

But now they know, oh, they know

that slipping silence waits for greens to grow.



I can't see the glassy pane

that insulates my hearth-warm heart

from nipping, dripping, misting rain,

'though it keeps me apart, to ponder winter's art.

Here, inside this cozy room

fingers slide on black keys, and white.

They thrust; they glide, and peck a tune

from cloud-borne, dispersing light.

From spring's remembered cumulus sky,

and summer's drench that turned August dry,

from autumn's golden high, and sad goodbye,

this gentle wint'ring brings a lullaby.



Glass half-Full