Snowman and Carrots

Long johns, Levis, itchy but warm wool socks,
Musty gloves, boots with shoestrings longer than an extension cord
And more eyes than a fly join
An almost thrown away “who’s gonna use it” hat
To shuffle me
hesitantly to the ice cold porch.

‘Build it’ is the only part of that crazy baseball
Movie I remember as I stand frozen
on the steps in front of old man winter.
He and Mother Nature
Must be having an argument.

Pure, pristine and powerful, the still air needles
Its way through any thin kink
In my winter’s armor. I’m doing this because?
Little doubt that huge doubt tells me
Sensible grown-ups
Don’t do this anymore.

Still, I stubbornly succumb
To being the little boy – again – who loves
Breathing in frosty mornings
While awkwardly building a snowman.

Ice on ice. Carrots and sticks. False teeth that
Laugh at the wickedness of the cold.
Oh
What fun it is to slide in
that great old-fashioned way.

The Ears to Hear

In the distance, the voice
Of an angel invites
Me to sing.

A duet, I’m told.

Deftly skirting
Edges of my soul, I stand
Composed yet dissonant,
Resonant but mute. Murmurs hum
Yet wistfully whisper
In concert with desires
from all Quarters of my syncopated time.

Is this the harmony I ache for
The melody of the gods
The relative affinity to my past
Or merely another’s Siren song?

Voices of angels beckon
As I wonder. They symphonize
Almost Gregorian
A Mormon tabernacle of
Majestic language known only
To one who has ears to hear.
Listen, I say, for in these
Trebling times, peace is possible.

Then quiet.

A breeze accompanies the distance,
Crescendo of interweaving harmonies whispering.

The silence of the angels
Wakens me.

Acapella is not my forte.