"... A scattering of dark leaves stood up, chased tourists, chased till the wind dispersed them ..."
Peter recommends these on line literary sites.
Peter Robinson reads "Winter Interiors" in Real Audio
for John and Christine Roe
Waking to low-angled sunlight
aglow in white curtains, in a sliding screen,
on wooden-framed and sand-encrusted wall,
to the smell of a loaf baked overnight
and, despite the season, kept from harm
in that devastated city of all places,
I lift my good ear from the pillow, turn
(as if no longer needing to yearn
for anything more) and find the warm,
of a mother and child in your chilly room.
Though just now, unseasonable snows
like frozen spume on a Hokusai wave
have whitened out the distances,
draped pine branches with their ermine -
though we are not all states, all princes,
and there's never been another School of Love -
back to the days of numbed senses
at condensation-beaded windows,
we're giving it our best to survive;
though never very good at close family,
at accepting dependence because strong enough,
in the still of a difficult winter, who knows?
Perhaps we're learning to be.
Surfaces of Things
Surrounded by crows
near the writers' museum,
a child threw her crumbs.
Grass tufts thrusted through
asphalt to the castle grounds'
Currents on the lake
drew a pink line of blossom
across poised water.
Then fresh breeze ruffled
trim feathers on a hawk's wings:
surfaces of things.
That's what it felt like.
A scattering of dark leaves
stood up, chased tourists,
chased till the wind dispersed them -
embittered posthumous lives.