First Frost
Hoar
Yard sighs, mother-gray;
brittle blades wake silver-spined—
the forest shudders.
Mr. B. B. Says
“Used to be August,”
he tells of October rime—
“frost’s gone by lunch now.”
Layers
Fog, river’s cashmere;
Hudson layers for the cold—
winter waves hello.
Dry Suit Season
Neoprene to wool—
paddle will soon be ski pole;
make sure zippers close.
Rekindling
Screen door still open;
J lights the woodstove and waits—
embers find their breath.
Denning
Bears nose through the duff;
out back, a tarp snaps in wind—
snow hums in the pines.