morning sleet
someone at the bus stop
humming

winter morning
the sound of grandma
zipping her boots

scotch mints —
the squeak of my walking stick
in packed snow

sleet through bare trees
   a titmouse shows me
a fiery black eye

my brother’s hello
the chill of the wind
on his jacket

fresh snow
for the hands,
for the face

snowy day —
nothing ordinary
about an orange

the birch trunk’s sheen
moves when I do
winter solitude

Burial
mourners and bare trees
blend

her empty bed —
night rain
on fallen leaves