USA

poetno1@aol.com 

Where Do the Ducks Go in Winter?
for Holden Caulfield, Catcher in the Rye

In the January dusk,
heads lowered
against the frigid air,
we trudge single file
to our door, arms filled
with groceries, the snow
brittle beneath our boots.
Then, unexpectedly, we hear
their cry, a distant barking,
and lift our eyes to see
hundreds of geese, so high
they are barely discernible
in the fading winter light,
spread out in V formation,
one wing, one voice.

After the Ice Storm

trees weep
in the sun
remove tight glass gloves
from fingers

grass stubs
poke
through snow crust
glitter 
like tinsel
at Christmas

puddles of green
will soon
reclaim
powdered sugar
lawns

Please Leave

I am tired of your moon-pale face,
the stubble on your chin,
tired of your drab gray vest,
the mud on the hem of your jeans.

You no longer thrill me
with your hair of silver white 
and the touch of your long fingers
chill rather than ignite.

Yes, I am tired of your company, 
the hang-dog look in your eye.
You seem to attract disaster
just by passing by.

I'm tired of your gripping hold
that restricts my going about.
I refuse to be your captive.
Winter, now get out!

© Copyright, 2000, Anita Byerly.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.