Winter Morning by Robert Creeley

The sky’s like a pewter
of curiously dulled blue,
and “My heart’s in the highlands . . .,”
feels the day beginning again.

And whatever, whatever, says it
again, and stays here, stays
here with its old hands,
holds on with its stiff, old fingers,

can come too, like they say,
can come with me into this patient weather,
and won’t be left alone, no, never alone ever
in whatever time’s left for us here.

spring night descends

spring here
so pleasant to sit
on a balcony
drink tea with friends
talk movies
as if life resides there
then home
fry mackerel
eat an apple a peach
drink lemon water
and wistfully stare
at that unopened bottle
of whiskey
calling my name
but who can I drink with
old friend
you are long gone
the cat too
the dog’s ashes
in an urn
no distractions left
to delay
the memories’ return
as spring night descends