I cannot find any tracks of birds
In the snow this morning
But by the feeder – a trace of someone there.
Could a seed fall in this great whirl of snow?
Never! A small live foot had been and left its mark.

Late August one hot day
I rowed our dory to the fishing place.
I did not fish but sat there anchored –
Rock…rock…rock…and thanked a sea gull
For his angry cry.

November I raked leaves
And laid them in a neat pile
By the privet hedge for compost.
I stopped to admire them once in a while
Polished red or yellow, flexible and not quite
Dead.

Now it’s winter, frozen
And pale with snow.
Deer leap up to their middles
And field mice huddle in the gullies below.
Snow keeps on coming.
When I turn out the light,
Alone in my small bed and the dark,
I wish then that snow would fall…fall…
Cover the whole house and leave me smothered !

But when April’s here
And I open the door, I just stand looking.
Everything’s green, and I know then
You have come halfway
To meet me.

Pieter Dominick, from Seed Syllables, and Other Poems