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Posts Tagged ‘snow’

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March 15, 2009 morning 004

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Spring and winter spar

rain mixes with something white

snow teases the vine.

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©  2012, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-posted from 2012)

 

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Heavy laden sky

surrenders to lure of earth

forest is hush-hush.

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 © 2013, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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(A re-post) 

Photo taken 12-20-2013

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When we see

snow flocked trees,

a soaring hawk

and winter greens

we seize the beauty

and set it free:

catch   and   release.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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(True of all artists, photographers, writers, sculptors, painters, musicians. 🙂 )

 

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White Night

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And there was such a midnight

when the air took on a glow

and the sky began to loosen

and the dark was lit by snow

and the woods were sooner filled

with a whispering gypsy light

that danced across my footprints,

then swaddled them in white.

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(c) 1993, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

 

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our.

It’s one more slippery

snow-white day

when every bird

has stolen away

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except for one

in the old elm tree

who watches my window.

But does he see me,

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or just the reflection

of love left behind?

I blow him a kiss

through the half-opened blind.

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And as each new season

transfigures our view

perhaps he won’t mind

that I’m watching him too.

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© 2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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She sips hot tea

and watches snow

fall through the trees

and those ugly electric wires

that slice across her view.

She sighs…

“The world is too much with us,”

William Wordsworth said so long ago.

What would he say now?

Children play outside

with phones stuck to their faces

and never look up.

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It doesn’t stick.

She turns from the window

to her beloved books:

poetry, philosophy,

nature, metaphysics –

millions and billions of words

strung in constellations of idea.

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She imagines stirring them up

into one large pot

over a hot fire

and wonders what the bottom line

would be – the final alchemy.

Perhaps this one plea:

to speak our love now

before the die is cast,

before we sign our exodus;

to lift ourselves

by bootstraps woven

with the dreams of Gaia.

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Her tea has gone cold.

She turns back to the window

where the snow is finally sticking

and the trees are turning white.

And seventy times seven birds

are perched upon the wires.

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© 2016  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post from 2012)

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And after the blaze, what?

Would they,

like snow on fire

end in vapor

against the starry night?

She stands below his mountaintop

frozen to her ache

and lights a match.

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(c) 1995, 2014  Betty Hayes Albright

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