January 31st 2016

The winter should be colder, but sometimes it’s only for us to live life as it is.  The brook out back of our house is breaking again—not the cascades of spring but the slow dissolution of ice and the mirror-like waters beneath.

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glistening
··· in the trees at midnight—the Milky Way’s
········thaw

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The sound of water is everywhere—from trees, roof eaves, and in the wind’s wake. There’s warmth in the smell of the soil as if winter’s visit were already drawing to a close.

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86 January 31st 2016 | bottlecap

Bicycles = Infinity

My wife has been busy printing block prints this past year. I’m going to post them over the next week. One of her ambitions this summer is to buy an electric bicycle. The older one gets, the bigger Vermont’s mountains.

January 30th 2016

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January
····thaw—leaning to look at my leaning
········woodpile

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Stacking firewood is an art form I might, before I die, master. I’ve seen firewood stacked that would outlast the pyramids. The splits fit together like pieces of a puzzle and the covered wood has never seen a drop of rain. The castles at the ends are works of art. Mine have fallen over—and the same pile—more than once. The trick is to lean like the woodpile. That makes it look plumb.

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85 January 30th 2016 | bottlecap

From Snow to Snow

Last week I picked up a small book for my little Robert Frost collection:

The first photo is a little blurry. Sorry ’bout that. Found it at an antique store and couldn’t resist. Never even knew it existed. If you, like me, uselessly collect books (like this one) for no reason whatsoever, more copies at a (for now) reasonable price, can be had at Amazon. That old folding rule belonged to my grandfather. He was a Physician rather than a builder, but had a few, little, nice tools that I still use. Makes me think maybe I oughtta’ put together a little collection of my own poems like this.

January 29th 2016

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through
····a frosted window—yearning to see the beautiful
········woman

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Passing by a café at night, the windows were steamed and frosted.

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84 January 29th 2016 | bottlecap

January 28th 2016

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January—
····the stars above the broken barn
········unchanged

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Thinking about old barns and collapsed structures. Being a builder, it’s a little like seeing a patient I could have saved. There was a lovely old barn at the bottom of Sharon hill. I watched one end of the foundation slowly slip out from under. The ridge followed and then the rest of the barn. The owners have left its bones to weather. When I drove by tonight, they were half covered under a starlit sheen of snow.

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83 January 28th 2016 | bottlecap

January 27th 2016

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through
····the branches—snowflakes the size
········of leaves

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A brief squall passed through this afternoon. If there had been ice on the limbs the snow would have stuck to them—we would have had an icy foliage in January’s trees.
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82 January 27th 2016 | bottlecap

January 26th 2016

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ice
····through the leaky roof—the orange tree’s
········pot

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There’s that leak I can’t be bothered sussing out. Only happens when the ice dam breaks. I’ve put my little orange tree under the drip, and all’s right with the world.

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81 January 26th 2016 | bottlecap

January 25th 2016

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crows
····in a field of snow—too many for one
········haiku

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Once again, driving home in the evening, I saw more crows in one place than I’ve ever seen. They were beautiful in that way that only a black bird can be beautiful in the snow. There were just as many consorting in the air above the field.

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Tonight I really looked forward to the calm before and after writing a haiku. This may be becoming a habit that I enjoy.

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78 January 25th 2016 | bottlecap

January 24th 2016

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end
····of January—sunlight pooling under the window’s
········candles

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These last few days have been beautiful. I’ve even noticed the days getting longer; and lately the sun has been bending the candles in the south-facing window—the first signs of a returning warmth.

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79 January 24th 2016 | bottlecap