".................How can I feel so warm Here in the dead center of January? I can Scarcely believe it, and yet I have to, this is The only life I have." – James Wright

Adrienne, this morning the grass that greeted me Was wearing earrings and lace from Jack Frost, As I, huddled under the heavy top coat, ambled Up the drive to fetch the newspaper.

I write this tidbit into this notebook now For your information. This book might make the journey To your side, separately from mine. Yet know That it was mine, by its blue cover and Indian ink

I am writing these occasional notes, if you happen To meet it instead of meeting me. I have been, however, Teaching my old knees to kneel, as I pray for forgiveness, And plead for a place next to you in that community

Of angels, in spite of my heavy sins of not having loved this world, with you in it, enough. It might be too late for that however.

And yet on the window sill grape tomatoes shine like rubies in the noon sun. And yet I can scarcely believe that my bones miss your warmth, So surely, even after all these many winters, which you have missed. And yet I can scarcely believe that as I walked through the blizzards How often I forgot this is the only life I was given to spend An eternity with you.

In the inland glen wakes the dawn-dove. We must try

I said to the almond tree, “Sister, speak to me of God.” And the almond tree blossomed. – Nikos Kazantzakis

Facing the cold, spitting a spume Of cold air from my chapped mouth, I am here, at the bottom Of this hill, watching the soul

Wrestle with the angle at nightfall. The sun had gone before on it’s Westerly route hidden on the other side, Beyond the spikes of ashen oaks

And last faint call of birds. Why are you so silent, O Supposedly Intimate, even in stray dreams? What is the price for entering grace?

The body, joyless unlike Sister Almond Tree, continues to chew On this dry bread of imaginings. I am shaking it, a rattle bag.

Listen to its wail, read these Dim jottings my soul – so little Light, so much smoke – leaves On these rotting leaves underfoot.

Teach me, now more stone Less man, your unheard song, So that I can again love so well, That I may believe, in the end, in You.