He said, "No snow." A collection of contemporary poems.

A narrative poem
relies on character
and conflict to create story.

Jack had an early meeting so
I walked the dogs alone at sunrise.
I saw no other walkers.

Choosing a path
different from the one we
normally walk,
my Keens crunched crusty snow
scattered across the trail.
Such irregularities
made walking a challenge.
My ankles hurt.

Between patches of snow,
mud the color of a
French mole
threatened to entrap
my soles.

I balanced on
this tightrope
passing fields
of dry thistles,
inhaling crisp,
mountain air.

Mole was a strange word.
Were all moles mud-colored?
Mole Poblamo was not the
color of a French rodent,
it was the color of chocolate.

Chocolate. The word
began with an explosion
and ended in embrace.

Miles to the south,
cumulus clouds enveloped Pike's Peak.
Overhead the sky was a bright,
calm cerulean.

My stomach growled for an espresso
and maple yogurt granola.
I blew my drippy nose and
began the slow climb north,
heading home.

Movement stage left.
A man the size of a mole scurried east.
My God, was he wearing taupe?

I did not recognize the posture of the man.
The dog beside him bounded like black lab.
My friend David had a black lab
and walked mornings but this
gentleman's gait was not erratic
like David's unbalanced stride.

Finnegan and Baxter Thor tore down the trail anxious to sniff and wrangle this black dog and I picked up the pace knowing unknown dogs even labs were unpredictable though an unleashed dog in the Open Space generally meant the dog would not attack The man did not turn left toward the road but wound his way toward me traversing a U-turn now headed south now headed west toward me while

in a ditch

Finnegan and Baxter Thor's noses were

raised,
searching for a whiff
of black lab.

The man kept to the left side of the trail and I kept to the right, gaping at his apparel, incongruent in

this wilderness.
The morning was
crisp, the trails
unkempt, yet this elder wore

one pressed pair of khaki slacks that shimmered as he strode
one super lightweight jacket sans swinging arm swish
one burgundy beret, well placed with flash above the left eye.

He drew close.
"Nice morning."
His voice was gruff.
I nodded.
Face to face,
I experienced the spring of
two repelling poles-
a magnetic moment.
His eyes narrowed.
"No snow."

I glanced around. Trails here were void of snow.
Solar energy had worked its magic on these open spaces,
evaporating last week's banking drifts. But
plenty of snow remained in and around the
Ponderosa Pine below.

No snow. Cryptic.

I turned to discover whether man
and dog had reunited. Evidently
they, too, had evaporated.

No snow: it was
a mini epitaph of sorts.

An epitaph is a gravestone message.^.

No snow
where he's going.

A mantra is sound that transforms.

No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. The background of my computer screen is white as snow. Label that thinking. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. No snow. Know snow.

Know snow? Samskara.

An idea poem conveys an intellectual concept to readers.

Glacial rivers flow.
Ice particles inspire optimism like lace on a mannequin.
Slick, pine needle crystals beget a night of black ice.
Snow drifts slip between unsealed panels of glass.
Lumps of snow in widening puddles warp hardwood floors.
Little balls of snow frostbite moustached lips.

Ultraviolet rays reflecting from snow temporarily blind us
to its value. Snow is a component of the hydrologic cycle.
We survive because of its fresh water deposits.

Glacial rivers flow.
Ice particles filter sound and light like curtains of lace.
Slick, needled crystals pull home's yellow warmth into the night.
Snow drifts insulate unsealed panels of glass.
Lumps of snow in widening puddles, moisten hardwood mops.
Little balls of snow are reason enough to kiss a moustache.





A French triolet is an iambic tetrameter
form with a rigid rhyme pattern.



I met you on a ruddy trail, alone.
I was a fool transformed, when I got home.
Your No snow greeting challenged what was known.
I met you on a ruddy trail, alone.
Al Roker cleared the air; he made me groan.
"Predicted snow went south" as I went ohm.
I met you on a ruddy trail, alone.
I was a fool transformed, when I got home.

A haiku is a simple, open,
light, yet deep poem.



Play with one object.
Study it in depth. It might
reveal something.