I crossed the bridge on the coldest
day of the year just as the noon
whistle blew
on the frozen river below
hundreds of geese huddled together
on the sunlit ice
once inside the downtown deli
I warmed to a cup of soup
and toasted sandwich
driving back across the bridge
the geese had vanished
into the bitter winter air
january two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
amid dark winter nights
I lay out glorious plans
to conquer the seed
the wind and the rain
the whiteness of the world
inspires me to envision
perfect days where irises
bloom under moonlight
sacred revolutions seem
as remote as paradise
testing my patience
from far away places
january two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
butterflies are nothing but
welcomed distractions in a
hurry-up-world
long after the youth of careless
rebellion becomes
netted in routine
december two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
The six-month winter miraculously
segues into a psychedelic fever
of blossoming apple trees
and awakening white birches
as white-fronted geese
flock along an endless sky
painted robin’s-egg blue.
Outside the city garden plots
become reacquainted
with agrarian hands skilled
from generation’s past
furiously planting and artfully
nurturing all that is necessary
to survive the next winter.
january two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
nobody knows what the weather
is like in iowa
just like they don’t know gigantic
potatoes only grow in idaho
in january it’s so damn cold here
the cows don’t move
so it’s easy to walk right up to them
and snap photograph after photograph
there are no metropolises in iowa
just little towns
with a post office and a tavern
where you can tie your horse to a post
in the winter the winds blow so cold
it leaves you shivering
until march when the sun penetrates
the earth and reality begins to blossom
copyright j matthew waters
december two thousand twelve
all rights reserved
the lighted pond
attracted the townsfolk
on christmas eve
all eager to trade their boots for blades
and chase their shadows
across the ice
their arms and legs seemingly moving
in different directions
as feet shuffle and glide
race and coast
their chatter audible and visible
in the bright brisk air
with an occasional rump
every so often
testing the thickness
of the natural rink
december two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Bottle the warmth
of late August
sunshine,
stow it where
no one
will guess.
When the sub-zero
midwestern storm
attacks,
uncap the sample–
stay warm
until the thaw.
click here for youtube video
j matthew waters
copyright nineteen ninety-three
all rights reserved
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