DECEMBER DAYS

You've suspected

the wind of the pine trees

will soon be white

inspected in the morning air

awaking from an echo of snow
as flakes are falling
like the stars all night
over the covers of tree limbs 

yet a poet is here
on December days
painting words

by these meadow woods

along the ephemeral Cape's shore

my back to the wind

anchoring my orange kayak

in the narrow home harbor

circling the four sparrows

with my camera
often hanging out
for hours
by the birch branches
amid the gallow birds
who land on the leaves
of steep waters

my voice in deep memory
of trampled grassland
amid wild flowers
over these soft islands.