King Winter
On a day as this
when the winds bear
an icy breath, they strip
the vines of vineyard leaves,
disrupting the careful symmetry
of leaf and branch, tear even
the hardy nuts loose so
at last we know
winter is king.
No benevolence in his gaze
no warmth in that grip
even the light quails.
This is the new King,
crowned in a white mantle
and his feet are an icy swath
of grasses, brittle ice.
Birds shiver in darkened
bushes, coo for dawn.
It is not morning to the quiet
sleepers in their burrows
or to the trees patient as hills.
In a safer place, the drowsy
fish fin a current, taste
the water for something new.
Fisherman huddle in small boats
nose into the current and
watch filaments of hope.
Across the broad compass of
San Pablo Bay
wind
in fits and starts
finds strength in its travel
lifts white from the cool grey.
Enough recent rain shower
that the low hummocks of
East Bay, jewelled with refineries,
drifts into sky.
Low sky.
High Bay.
This corner of the citied
estuarine domain
has long ceded its wildness.
Oak sheathed low hills are
patched in yellow grass
shot with homes and tied
in highway lines. A blink
where Broth
Trees and vines stand bared.
It is only rain.