Snow on Saturday

Today it snowed on my dog. :)

I Opened My Door to the Night

Though not insistent, she exerts a pressure that I feel as emptyness or a vague wanting. I opened my door to the night. She came rushing in, her coolness flavored with the perfume of starlight and the sparkle of moonlight behind her eyes. Never alone, she brought frogsong; the delicate and distant chirping coming from ditches and puddles in the fields outside this sleeping town.
I stood in the doorway as she brushed past, her hand on my cheek; her mind, my mind. Empty to my own self, filled with the mystery of the dark; of shadows, of caves, of unknowable places. She is more than the absense of sunlight. Her refuge is beyond the edges, the places we will never see, nor even dream of seeing. She lives in that far vastness and comes to visit. Her presence indicates the smallness of our world.
On the edge of a drainage ditch, a thumbnail sized frog chirps loud and insistent. His words are a trickle into a stream, to a roaring river of frogsong. His green skin sparkles with the freshness of just-budded leaves; of emeralds finely ground. Each sparkle mote a reflection of the entire night sky. His croaking a small push into next year. Pushing the collective song along through time, so that it will be heard again, as it was heard when we came to this place, long ago and seeming like yesterday.
Her skin is the frog's skin; irridescent with the sparkle of his song. Her cloak, the lonely sound of a single car on a wet, empty street. Her visit short. She never says "Goodbye".

Green Leaves

We are at the doorstep of Spring. February has turned a page and on the calendars March presents a new picture.
Along First Street, four recalcitrant trees have stubbornly refused to drop a few of last year's leaves. Shrugging off the cold, the insistent demands of winter winds and the weight of snow. Green and playfull as flags or kites, the leaves remained; vigilant above the heads of muffled and coated morning walkers and the curious tourists from the big city.
Maybe, deep underground, a hot river flows. Water that fell close to the toes of an active volcano, a thousand miles away. Near to the blazing belly of the earth's core it flowed and emerged as super-heated steam. Condensed by the cool crust and flows like warm blood under the streets of this small town. Maybe those trees have sent roots, like sipping straws, into that deep heat and bring it up, warm drop by drop to cuddle the few leaves through the winter.
Or, perhaps they found a cavity in the bedrock. Maybe a bubble formed in a lava flow. That they wrapped tightly with roots and there, insulated from time, the trees deposited small scraps of summer surplus; the distant "clink" of an aluminum baseball bat. the droning of insects. the unused part of an early sunrise and a catch of restful August afternoon nap. Like a little bit of rainy day money or a thermos of hot cocoa to sip while waiting for the sunrise on a sleepy and snowy January morning. These scraps and ends of Summer saved away; vibrant joy of warm days carefully gleaned and crammed into that space. Compressed by tight-fisted roots into a globe of coal, dark and heavy as iron. A November spark began the slow burn throughout the dreary months. And like a stove too small for a big house, it is just enough to keep the chill out of the air and the frost outside the door and enough hope to keep green leaves on twigs.