I have nothing to say and no one to say it to

This blog was supposed to be for my opinions and thoughts on life and the nature of the world and being. Often I don't have a strong opinion. I rather like this world and wish that more people were doing art and less people were doing war. What follows is a poem I wrote after we were "buried" in snow (2 feet of it -- ok, laugh you northerners) in February.

Wrong Season
(after the deep snowfall, February 2010)

I am not a fox, says the fox.
The wind colors me red and the snow
makes me deep and silent.
The quality of light is hunger.
There will be no warm respite.
Everything has gone to ground.
I can move, the falling white
bounding my wooded world.
But I can’t escape.

I am not a bird, says the sparrow.
The light frames me brown and still.
I am cold, not flight. I am caught
in the wrong season. Where
are my friends? Where is my food?

I am not a deer, says the doe.
What can I do in this white world?
I am ghost, fading into the woods,
looking for shelter. I am surprise,
the quality of waiting.

I am not future or past,
say the fox, the sparrow, the doe.
I am now. I am sight, I am hearing.
The quality of light is hunger.
I am caught in the wrong season.
I am ghost.