An Absence of Snow It doesn’t snow here, although there Are winter mornings when the frost Is enough to make one wonder, Joints grind against themselves, Skin shudders, shedding warmth. It does not snow here, though all the Leaves have vacated their perches And the naked branches hang empty Anticipating the wet weight of snow, Even though it won’t snow here. The calendar can tell me when winter Has arrived or my bones can tell me, Or the aches in muscles which never Ached before when doing those things Which no longer seem worth doing. Bones know better than digital clocks, Better than daylight savings time, Better than the holiday displays in Every store and on every downtown Street where merchants ply their trade. Snow has no power on the California Coast, it is merely a distant relative Who lives up in the boonies, sufficiently Inclined to deep suspicion of outsiders As to greet all visitors with a shotgun. My Mother Grows Old (1931-2019) She hardly ever
Super Blood Wolf Moon Gary V. Powell Kallisto Gaia Press 2020 41 pages $12.95 Powell's chapbook is an impressive undertaking, Beginning with the evocative title, Super Blood Wolf Moon , the collection takes us through rocky pitfalls of life with wit and poignance. "On Learning of the Death of an Old Girlfriend on Facebook Before Finishing Your First Cup of Coffee" uses repetition to make its point, in a a chant or wail of sadness in which the narrator bemoans the loss of an old love while performing the odd tasks of a life, walking the dogs and remembering that annual flowers are just that: they always come back, but that she won't. Age and accident rule us all, and it's never easy to take. Another poem which uses repetition to its great advantage is a poem titled "Crowder Peas." The first and last stanzas are identical: "Remembered picking crowder peas/for the first time in years." Yet in the middle, contrary to the first poem, the narrator ca