Here’s a poem by my Grandmother, Edith Sanborn Cobble from her book Drifting Sands published 1952.

Appearing as if from nothing

The owl on the branch

Calculates the distance

Between here and there

Invisable ears detect

The breath of a mouse

Under the snow

Copyright April 5, 2017 by Diane E. Dockum

snow has drifted

over the parts of me

that wonder

in quiet repose —

feeling old

the air is close and

sounds are neglected

energy diverted

to fighting the cold

nights are too short

days are too long

hope you’re not sick

of me singing this song

© April 4, 2017, by Diane E. Dockum

Mr. Plunkett works at the shoe store,

His favorite food is soup.

He sells high heels,

He sells Oxfords,

He sells sneakers.

His cat comes to work with him every day.

He wears round wire-rimmed glasses,

And has a receding hairline.

Mr. Plunkett woke up this morning,

His cat was on his chest,

His shoes were lined up against the mopboard.

Everything was in its place,

Except

His glasses were not where he left them.

They were not on the nightstand.

His cat stared coolly into the distance.

Mr. Plunkett was irritated.

For breakfast, he heated a can of soup.

It was minestrone, a full-bodied blend.

He poured the steaming brew into his travel mug

And screwed the cap on tight.

His cat yawned.

He was ready for work,

Except

His round wire-rimmed glasses were nowhere to be found.

He glared at the cat as

A suspicion grew in the back of his balding head.

At work, it was hard to read the shoe sizes

On the boxes of high heels

And the Oxfords and sneakers

And he didn’t even recognize himself in the mirror

Behind the accessories counter.

That cat.

He was sure it was that cat

Who stole his glasses.

Why he probably buried them in her litter pan.

How vile!

The cat found a bed in an empty shoebox

In the back room

And stretched out her right front paw

very far until it vibrated.

Her conscience was unburdened.

© 3 April 2017 Diane E. Dockum

Thawing snow in rivulets

Run down the sloping pavement

Revealing things we thought were gone

When cast out the car window

It’s old chewed gum, bird poop,

And french-fry cups and string

From popped balloons.

It’s plastic swizzle sticks from drinks

And matchbooks pressed flat.

The archeology of spring is

On the street that runs downhill

To the bar

Revealing a multitude of vices.

Cigarette butts, and needles,

And where this litter pools at the drain’s edge

Too large to fall between the vents

As after an Autumn rain,

When leaves layer

Preventing water to drain,

The Snow banks shrink as the sun

Travels east to west and wind

Carves the surfaces into spikes

And drips wither the heights.

©2 April 2017  Diane E. Dockum

I heard a mourning dove

Today

Crying in the rain.

She sang a song of

Loneliness to

Articulate her pain.

Though my eyes searched

For her

She, hidden well, remained.

Comfort is bidden,

But not found;

She continued her refrain.

©Diane E. Dockum, April 1, 2017