So... It's snowing again.

So much for the last post... haha. This would happen on April 1st too. Thanks, Mother Nature.



Buds recede and browns prevail.
Back to what resisted switching
Climates. Back to dry leaves twitching.
Back to what is four months stale,
Flora scoffs at spring’s first fail.

Early-rising birch trees sweep
To get the new snow off the old.
They feel betrayal. They were told
That their eagerness could keep.
But now they must go back to sleep.

In flake’s pace green decays to sooty
Colors softened, shades of gray,
Thoughts that spring was here to stay.
Outraged guile may be my duty,
But how could I ever hate such beauty?

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Spring

Slanted sunlight’s stretched shadow
Chips away white layers. Pines
Don’t forget the fall ago.
Forest trees boast thicker spines.
Brown remains, but yet in slow
Reaches come the vernal vines.
Grow, little optimists, grow.

I can’t speak for everything,
Too much left for certainty.
Tomorrow’s presence may bring
Beaten frost caked on a tree,
Or a sapling’s single wing.
But that is enough for me:
Hope is all I need for spring.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Snow on a Glove on a Chairlift

Hello all-
So I'm on spring break now. Woohoo! I've been skiing lots and so have passed quality time on chairlifts. Yay... Chairlifts.

More mountains than glances
Breath-numbered trees,
Infinite chances
On how it will freeze

On a slope. The snow
Could be frost or near
My face. What I don't know
Is why this flake is here.

It melts on my glove
As if maybe to say
Even if it'd love
To have a longer stay,

This flake had happened
To fall on this hand.
So even in a flap, End
Takes the final stand.

Unpublished material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Late Winter Sky

The wanton climate clipped its fist
To make its way in between
A season’s undernourished sheen
And a new time. A gentle mist
Undoes every icy cyst.

Though not shedding beryl blood
The mountain leaves say “Amethyst!
Our fall colors must still enlist
Patronage.” And so they flood
And mingle with the frost’s scud.

Pure, primary, blue glaze,
Quieter than a spring bud,
Evaporated thawing mud,
Moving towards a verdant phase,
I remain when my eye stays.

And though my life is far from green,
I feel like this deserves some praise,
A progress flourish, Polonaise.
I’ve never seen a sky this clean
In any March I’ve ever seen.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Wheelock Street Snow Bank

Hey all-
So I decided to try my hand at some free-verse poetry. Much to my surprise it was a lot of fun! Let me know what you think!

~CD


Carved snow bank
Like little pebbles were
Bullets, like the cars
Had firebombs in the
Puddles they hit,
The ice glazes it:
Thrice fired,
Thrice ignored,
Thrice reformed
In an ash cloud
Of charred snow.
Trapping specks
In its buttresses,
As if Dresden
Could happen twice,
Every day, along
The road
During rush hour,
It is
Pounded,
Sculpted,
Sliced,
Refined.
The harder the splashes
The more its spires
Point upwards.


Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Shadows on an Evening Snowbank

I am alone when it is night,
When the ground holds nothing to see.
Darkness does not open doors.
The squeaking snow my only trace,
The sound floats in its frosted space.

But I suppose the night ignores
The silhouettes that are cast free
When any small flame shows its might.
My shape distorted on the snow,
Movements betrayed in a lamppost’s glow.

Watching you is watching me,
Mistakes I make transcribed as yours.
You’ve become my shadow, when in light,
Appearing on my conscience’s shelf.
Not often I learn from myself.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Old Snow

The waves are growing towards the sky,
As quiet as a breath’s reprise,
The amethyst but a residue,
Lingering from the recent sun.

As if none revived these dormant seas
Of third day’s snow with sheen gone dry,
The luster of this patch long spun,
Its enchantment holds but few.

The season is far from begun,
Shadowy patches no longer new,
Evaporated is the sense of ease,
Left only with a half-hearted, “Why?”

Perhaps the jejune that I drew
Reminds me of what should be done.
In this plain of sameness, void of try,
Join me as I leave for the trees.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Shades and Snow

Colors have no need for praise,
They seldom hold to subtlety.
They cannot hold eternity.
A suited tenure could be glaze.
Upon a surface they gently graze.

The thicket hollow with its ash,
A quiet hue of restful art,
So that trees can’t be told apart,
The darkness does to hide a gash,
Enchanting with its somber flash.

All things romantic tend to be black,
Best camouflage for small mistakes,
Ignoring what existence makes.
It also hides what good they lack,
Not knowing when the light comes back.

The trees are shadows for the snow,
Silhouettes who outlast their theme,
Dark lines that withstand a dream.
As limbs are covered with silky glow,
Their shaking sleeps. The night is slow.



Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

PS: I took the picture too [:

Footsteps

Eyes gifted with blindness float.
It matters not where they fall.
Their hold on gravity will let them gloat
Until they must all answer to its call.
They’re pressed down firmly on the grass
As if no goodness came to pass.

A firm set of tracks cuts through the snow
I feel the need to trace its way.
But a freer walk could not be so,
Each crater held a slippery gray
As if this message would suffice:
“A twice trodden path is set in ice.”

Unpublished Material, ©2011 by Cali Digre

No Snow for Hanover

As if she were the final puzzle piece
In a jigsaw of unrelated snow,
She waits for the tapestry to be completed,
For the incompleteness to cease.
The final image she cannot know.
Pieces have their holism defeated.

But as she bides for her chance in white,
To be at last the fated semblance,
The time passes, and her existence seems lost.
It seems unfair to not delight
And to not inspire any remembrance
In the labyrinth of early frost.

So she takes pride as the single brown,
The patch that snow has yet to touch.
In the sea of white, she is an island,
In a crowd of smiles, she is a frown.
In the bounteous little, she is much.
There is much to rejoice as dry land.

She feels esteem for dissidence,
For defying the normalcy of winter.
She is the single patch of warm.
And I can say with confidence,
That I could merely be her splinter:
In this world of ice, I’m free from harm.

I’m the life in an ambiance of sleep.
I am the soft in surrounding sleeting.
I am matte in the middle of glare.
They must leave, but I can keep,
I have no obligation for fleeting.
I watch the pieces move towards fair.


Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre

Architect

Balanced on pine and oak and cedar.
Silent the night, silent the air.
Silent the breathing, the wind, the bird feeder.
Silent everything. Silent there.

It could be the flour on my hair
As I dust frosting on the yard.
The stillness left in every pair
Of snow white eyes left dry and hard.

I could exhale upon this card
And give ears to this quiet night
But I am but this moment’s bard,
And in my work I take delight.

Yet not in long the wind will fight
The stillness and the trees will move.
The dusting will at last take flight
But I shall never disapprove.

My work is meant to but remove
The tiredness of pressing day,
A fleeting gift for all that you’ve
Been wanting in your want to stay.

Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre