Sometimes During the Holiday Season

          Jill Breckenridge, Becketwood Member, from The Sometimes Poems

especially today, with 26 inches of snow

on the ground and more coming, snowflakes

 

fall so slowly, I can greet each one

by name. John refers to his car, buried

in the parking lot, as “The second igloo

 

on the right.” Everything wears a white

snow coat except for the busy squirrels

and rabbits, already outfitted with fur,

 

plowing through white, and I’m wearing my

warm down North Face jacket as I praise

the joy of red, white, and green lights

 

sparkling in evergreens on lawns and houses,

and in others, 8 Hanukkah candles ready

 

to be lit, one at a time, the Festival of

Lights, celebrating the miracle of oil

that burned steadily for 8 nights and 8 days.

 

Out my window, I see over a dozen robins

land in a tree, puffing up their orange

breasts. What are they doing here in winter!

 

Like our ancestors, way back when, I want to

build a huge fire and, holding hands with

loved ones and strangers, dance around it

 

to celebrate that sometime soon, this snow

will melt to feed the land, rivers, and lakes,

 

and we will celebrate the gift of longer days

and more light, and everything green will store

 

the strength to break through the earth’s hard

crust and rise, arms full of food and flowers.

 

Footprint in the Snow

          Susan Foster, Becketwood Member

Perplexed I ponder

Filled with wonder

There are no others

How can that be?

I love a mystery.

 

Snow Before Dawn: Saturday Night

          Stephanie Gordon, Becketwood Member

We wait and we watch

snuggled in our ivory throws

one bright candle gleaming at each window

across the quiet courtyard.

 

Aimless snow flakes in slow motion

fill the air with droplets of liquid snow.

We wait and we watch

the hour of midnight strikes.

 

The Morning is Quiet

          Linda Back McKay, Becketwood Member, from The Next Best Thing

As white is soft, as touch

is stone worn smooth

 

As love is wordless

as wind-blown pines

 

As generosity leans

convex and concave

 

As the world rewards us

for playing along

 

Such quiet, this scent

of creaking hardwood

 

This language we almost

remember

 

This white blow of snow

this ghost of clarity