Book of Days
BOOK OF DAYS: A POET AND NATURALIST TRIES TO FIND POETRY IN EVERY DAY
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November 30: End of November
Kristen Lindquist
River not yet frozen.
A single beech leaf shivers
against an ice-blue sky.
A single beech leaf shivers
against an ice-blue sky.
November 29: Mozart on the radio
Kristen Lindquist
For my workout high
and this winter-blue sky,
Mozart sounds just right.
November 28: Long drive home after Thanksgiving dinner
Kristen Lindquist
We leave the family home.
Jupiter watches
our progress homeward.
Jupiter watches
our progress homeward.
November 27: In bed
Kristen Lindquist
I fall asleep to The Hobbit,
dream of owls,
wake to torrents of rain.
November 26: Like living in a snow globe
Kristen Lindquist
Light snow falling this morning, enough that my brakes didn't quite catch at that first stop sign on my way to work. Fortunately, the powdered streets were quiet, a held breath.
One lesson of snow:
control is an illusion.
Breathe in that cold air.
One lesson of snow:
control is an illusion.
Breathe in that cold air.
November 25: Monday
Kristen Lindquist
Darkness falls early--
feels like
I just woke up.
November 24: Dim sum
Kristen Lindquist
My first but definitely not last visit to Empire, a new Chinese restaurant in Portland, while driving back from the snow and ice of northern Vermont this afternoon.
First snowstorm, fierce winds--
inside, we bite into
steaming pork dumplings.
First snowstorm, fierce winds--
inside, we bite into
steaming pork dumplings.
November 21: Wake up
Kristen Lindquist
Four geese fly
across the white face
of the morning moon.
November 20: Goddess of Love
Kristen Lindquist
Above the twilight horizon:
bright Venus
setting slowly.
bright Venus
setting slowly.
November 19: First snowflakes
Kristen Lindquist
Milkweed pods
rattle in the wind.
First few snowflakes fall.
rattle in the wind.
First few snowflakes fall.