Winter rises southeast—
Deer gnaw withered apples
as morning star fades
above indigo canyon.
Concealed in tall feathergrass
mountain lion nestles.
His tan body, mesmerized
like a stone fetish.
Sun blazes amber rays.
Snow powders the deer trail.
A hunter whispers through mist
his flowered prayer,
Meish guy-you, gumaa-tsinee,
Mountain Lion Man,
it’s already morning, help me.
Climbing Hawk Mountain
through blue juniper terrain
mountain lion leaps,
an arrow blest with pollen.
Winter sets southwest—
Deer in shadow tinged purple
enters spruce tree house
on his breath of every color.
Copyright © 2022 by Max Early. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 8, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.
The faint shadow of the morning moon?
Nay, the snow falling on the earth.
The mist of blossoming flowers?
Nay, poetry smiling up the sky.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on January 8, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.
Blow through me wind
As you blow through apple blossoms...
Scatter me in shining petals over the passers-by...
Joyously I reunite... sway and gather to myself...
Sedately I walk by the dancing feet of children—
Not knowing I too dance over the cobbled spring.
O, but they laugh back at me,
(Eyes like daisies smiling wide open),
And we both look askance at the snowed-in people
Thinking me one of them.
This poem is in the public domain. Originally appeared in Sun-Up and Other Poems (B. W. Huebsch, 1920).
Let us walk in the white snow
In a soundless space;
With footsteps quiet and slow,
At a tranquil pace,
Under veils of white lace.
I shall go shod in silk,
And you in wool,
White as white cow’s milk,
Than the breast of a gull.
We shall walk through the still town
In a windless peace;
We shall step upon white down,
Upon silver fleece,
Upon softer than these.
We shall walk in velvet shoes:
Wherever we go
Silence will fall like dews
On white silence below.
We shall walk in the snow.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on December 26, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets
When winter-time grows weary, I lift my eyes on high
And see the black trees standing, stripped clear against the sky;
They stand there very silent, with the cold flushed sky behind,
The little twigs flare beautiful and restful and kind;
Clear-cut and certain they rise, with summer past,
For all that trees can ever learn they know now, at last;
Slim and black and wonderful, with all unrest gone by,
The stripped tree-boughs comfort me, drawn clear against the sky.
This poem is in the public domain.
On a clear winter's evening The crescent moon And the round squirrels' nest In the bare oak Are equal planets.
From Living Things by Anne Porter, published by Zoland Books, an imprint of Steerforth Press of Hanover, New Hampshire. Copyright © 2006 by Anne Porter. All rights reserved.