The Coming of the Toads

A Notebook – Since 2007

Tag: snow

  • Stopping by Windows on a Snowy Evening

    “The woods are lovely, dark and deep,”
    Frost’s buggy driver said to his horse.
    “Not if you have early to rise and drive
    come morning,” his mare replied.

    But at sunup all promises were freed,
    schools closed and happy kids slid
    down ripe soft hills on toboggans
    made of birch poles and risks.

    And from slick freeways of iciness
    commuters stuck eyed the homes
    warmly hidden in the village hills
    and the road winds were not easy.

    Horse sense got lost when Ford
    put Frost and mare out of business,
    who now stop by wood windows
    within to view the snow without.


  • In the Cold

    In the still of the cold
    when you feel so old
    you reach for the one
    who’s left you alone.

    Your frosty glass rim
    shows one pair of lips
    another took a powder
    now lost in the snow.

    No storms rage
    if no boats out
    no parade today
    no lovely waves.

    This bitter cold blown
    down from the north
    now covers our town
    white toothed frown.

    The mood inside is
    frightful the cold
    outside delightful
    let’s not get buried

    in snow
    let it go
    let it go
    let it go.

  • Below the Snow

    Below the snow
    we stay warm
    and cozy away
    of falling limbs.

    Silent at bay
    we gape as
    shadows drift
    ghosts above us.

    The snow melts
    and we awake
    cold and wet
    like all the rest.


  • Winter as a Long Vowel

    Snow and ice week beats desire, a cold game victory, the spoils spoiled despoiled as even the oils freeze on the street beneath freezing rain, snow, sleet, silver saxophone east three day blow, again with uncertainty freezing rain, then maybe greater snow, the icy home burial, the grave diacritical signal code, the skein stripe heated bellows, below freezing, icicle phase. He’s now showing kinesics of hypothermia, that fellow, up in the trees. Snow shapes blanket the trees, in the wood where wooed we Saint Valentine’s Day, nestling the soft sounds of love, the warmth of feathers. What birds want out, let them fly. Herein we stay with wise advice, waiting for Spring.

  • After the Last Snow

    Psychedelic DogHe slushed through the yard with the dog, Mosey,
    looking for the salsa garden covered with snow.
    A foggy down comforter was spread
    across the cold compost pile.
    Mosey gave it the once-over and waggled on.

    Through the grey branches of the bald maple,
    the wintry sun dripped a wet, molting light.
    “I think I’ve found the salsa garden,”
    Mosey barked, wagging through a snowdrift.

    He found some green garlic starts,
    planted last fall in hope of an orange day.
    Over on the frozen patio sat the fable
    of a red tablecloth and a bottle of sweet wine,
    Mosey dozing in a patch of warm light.

    He hears voices, someone’s recipe:
    “Fresh cilantro, hot pepper, and black beans,
    eight tender Roma plum tomatoes,
    an inch of basil, a sprig of rosemary,
    a dash of black pepper and a pinch of salt,
    a dark green jalapeno,
    and a mellow, cool lime.”
    Sevenish on the heat scale, he thinks,
    two fat, purple candles melting the snow,
    Mosey barking, “Let’s go back inside now.”

    They entered the kitchen through the side door,
    dog wet noses sloshing snow and water,
    dripping all over the stale linoleum.