Huge and heavy,

snow bends spring boughs,

bows new-leafed oaks.

lowers lilacs weighted with blooms.

Snow in April’s unlike

winter’s champagne powder.

Not slight or light

but mush on mud.

In January fires in stoves

ignite logs of piñon,

light our home,

bless it with beauty.

Now in April’s storm

the stoves are as cold

as the rooms they once

warmed with light and love.



You weren’t careful

when you said good-by

in French.

Like their food,

it’s a work of art.

Au revoir:

would have been

good-by until we meet again.

But you said adieu:

good-by forever—

no next time for you and me.



Face the mountain range.

Face the sunrise over the ridge

and the day it drags over the desert.

Face the wild and wooly.

Face the red chuparose

and the yellow brittlebush.

Face the Road to Mecca.

Face the Salton Sea

and manmade death

in the Imperial Desert.

Love what’s there

for it’s all that is.


After April’s storm

sun shines again,

temps rise above freezing,

winds shake, rattle and roll

ice-encrusted treetops.

Tons of snow cascade

onto resilient roofs

and thence to a ground

begging for more.






Aches and pains

and unsightly things,

hair in the wrong places,

none in the right ones,

warts wandering bodywide

stiff knees and sore shoulders:

too much decline to face

and to do it, too little grace,

Age itself is an ache and a pain

but we’re wiser—that’s the refrain.

Worshiping age for wisdom’s gain?

Such foolishness is itself a stain.

Neither young nor wise nor hale,

my flaws I can only bewail.