In February a small sack of silk

fits tight against a window frame,

warmly wraps tiny spiders.


Glaciers of May melted to icy streams

flood valleys, erode loam,

spare a sapling atop moist stones.


The August sun grills a lawn to wool,

leaves one patch of green

still cool in a pattern shadow.


In November the ginkgo bares its branches

as straw fans spiral to earth…

on the maple, a shriveled fist hangs fast.


Ken Shiovitz

January, 2009