the hambone
sticks out from the soup
last geese

year’s end —
the median strip vanishes
into a curve

wolves gnawing
at my dream . . .
singing bowls

New Year’s morning —
the circles
of a toy train

winter doldrums —
my own footprints lead me
into the woods

December seventh . . .
      from the ship’s bell
             icicles

year’s end
well-worn pages
of the Psalms

awake at dawn —
a snow mantle muffles
the cock’s crow

sitting alone . . .
how slowly the
icicles melt

one mallard
drifts on the satin lake
my mind smooths out