I watched a man-
a construction worker-
eat a sandwich at
a huge picture
window, a fifth story window.

Outside the snow slowed to
a float, flakes
suspended in the grey
New England morning.

He sat heavy on
an upturned crate and
chewed, looked out the window
over his shoulder at
the slabby world around him.

Outside light snow rose upward
past him on the
opposite side of the
glass and hung, hovered – paused.

He wiped the corners of
his mouth and
gazed hard one more time,

tossed the wrapper to
the ground, pressed hands
to knees,
lifted,
and strode back to building.

Outside snow sifted
downward again,
finely,
then furiously.

Recently—only a moment ago
Snowed mountain ranges landscaped
Vehicles into knolls
Cities into still frames
And then to look in my backyard
With tulips pushing through
Crocuses already in bloom
Spring—Resurrection
A time for planting
Dusting off wicker rocking chairs
Dreamily hazily on the front porch
Greeting the neighbors as they pass
Getting to know why, again

i’d love to pour into something
like i used to pour into you and
stop believing i’m a better man
with a slightly elevated blood-alcohol content

i’d love to love something like
i love my pipe. my tea. my beer.
to find a love affair like that
with paper

instead its the pages i never fill
the words i never write on white
in black or blue pen
it’s empty notebooks i feel somehow
begin to lose heart at their unloved fate
wishing ‘if only a true lover of words
had embraced me’