Fortieth Stone

Weather forecast:
one inch of snow.
The maple outside
my window, does not
watch the Weather Channel
and has put out hundreds
of rust coloured buds,
branches reaching
for today's sunlight.

Thirty-ninth Stone

Trees freeze until
the sap bursts
with the crackle
snap of fireworks.

Thirty-eighth Stone

Temperatures drop:

out comes the grey

woolly scarf and

on goes the kettle.

Thirty-seventh Stone

As dawn lightens
through the bare
branches of the maple
canopy, a band of
pale yellow shades into
a pewter sky streaked
with smoky cirrus and
like some beacon
in the sky, Venus
low in the southwest.

Thirty-sixth Stone

A cold, dry night--
as I turn down
the fleece blanket
my fingertips draw
lightning trails.

Thirty-fifth Stone

As temperatures rise
snow crouches
in the nooks and crannies
of tree bark.