Formal reception (Day 402)

Perfect white petals.

Slight eagerness stills cupped wings.

Formal reception.

Sternly, pines balk, branches bowed.

Eloquent wind speaks her mind.

Sighing, spring retreats.

Ice reclaims still pools and ponds.

Fickle winter smiles.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: pihajutkanen/Pixabay

Moonscape (Day 401)

The artist's fingers seek and find  squelched

deep inside his rumpled linen coat 

the lawyer’s letter (signature required)  

growing damp and crumpled  there

he stands and draws his few visitors toward 

the glass   chilled by cold drafts tugged helplessly

into thin indentations   where beyond 

crackled windows   a golden moonscape glows  

a leaf grows here   a twig dries there  lizards 

lounge companionably   trying to warm their skin

in watery sunlight  requiring nothing more than 

an opportunity to taste the apple-scented air

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Sahara Desert (wislamos/Pixabay)

Ice Music (Day 383)

come out   into 

the dearest sliver 

                       of night   

intuit  improvise  take 

    turns warming 

thin sensitive fingers   tickling 

the pitiless ice   the brush
  of its steely surface 
       like the merest kiss 

            of arctic fur  

breaking against 

your bare neck   curved 

strings of errors composing 

instrumental openings 

into delicate 

     musical lakes 
resonating   a still 

  slight sound

in a softer space  

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Photo: Emile Holba

Inspired by this article about Norway’s Ice Music Festival

Blue (Day 351)

blue 

blew through me

I knew the underside

of a frozen stream 

seeping through the sky

where its seams were 

still unfinished

new

I knew the rhythm 

of your blood 

inside the landscape 

of your veins

a pattern barely realized

yet recognizing my disguise

left you somehow

diminished

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Mt Rainier at Sunset, NOAA Library

The Weekend Shows (Day 347)

cold toes in wool socks feet

sweating inside slippers that 

clearly aren’t doing their job   

comforting weight of the cat 

spread across my lap from 

knee to thigh folded and 

draped from side to side like 

a sun-warmed blanket 

knitting needles making a trim 

clicking sound when the tips 

graze and nubbly yarn turning

into fabric as it slips through 

my fingers   spicy floral tea 

growing lukewarm in a pottery 

mug painted by a mystery artist 

in an intricate pattern of blue 

flowers and green leaves that 

remind me the world will not

always remain frigid and gray

conversation on the radio in calm 

public-broadcasting voices so 

familiar they are almost like friends

—the ones I saw every day when 

I lived and worked in a city I loved—

though since That Man took office 

I’ve had to bar even NPR from 

my house during the work-week

because they never stop talking 

about him for an instant from 

Monday to Friday dwelling on 

the most bitter upsetting news

and in that way they aren’t really 

like my old friends at all

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: From Radio World magazine, 1923

via Wikimedia Commons

Hygge Tanka (Day 344)

On windows, frost blooms

Steam unravels from damp wool

Fire sighs and settles

Melting daylight drips like gold

Silent as cats, drafts slink in

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Beach Fire (Day 328)

Freighters’ lights, like stars,

glimmer and swim

in the distance. Between swells, 

they fall from view. Our eyes 

track their progress, instinctively

seeking their reappearance

each time they drop into vast 

watery valleys below the black 

horizon. Watching driftwood burn,

we feel the cold sand dampening.

Nearby, waves tumble and hiss,

closer now than before. The tide 

is turning. We must go.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Aris_Tsitiridis

First Frost (Day 322)

The saga of Roy G. Biv, unpresidential president, will continue tomorrow. He needed a mental-health day. Meanwhile...Winter.

Yesterday evening, a front blew 

through, stealing the last warm 

days, leaving our corner of 

the world shivering and serious. 

This morning, we are hunting 

spare blankets in unused closets, 

pulling on thick wool socks, 

and seeking the slippers 

mysteriously missing since May.

Now is a heavenly time to 

sit back and consider the spring. 

These long nights are sublime 

for leafing through gardening 

catalogs, planning vacations, 

and pondering roads that 

diverge in the woods up ahead. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Note: Source of the final two lines is The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost, whose poetry I have always loved. 

Image: Kellepics