a day in February

a day in February
isn’t usually this warm 
I am below a struggling sun

thinking of the instinct of birds 

and arranging plantings in my head 
I hear the oratory of my granddaughters 

as they stage one of their melodramas

in the leafless copse

at the back of the yard
I move some rolled up fencing

from this place to that

for no other reason than to temporarily 

placate an itch to be the in the garden

and to be

in some small way

of purpose 
I follow their song as they weave

among the trees

envious of their innocence 

as they spiral outward
ignoring for now

their lodestar 

as it beckons their attention

from the edge of forever 
(c) 2017 Fred Whitehead 

Some of my books on Amazon. One is a collaboration with David Rothbart

Erysses book 2 – IX

please think of me as
I so often

you
remember

if

you do
my patience

             (now exhausted
I could not tell by your longing

what kind of flower almost bloomed

no language has a word for it
even though it was a weak joy

we sought the very shape of it

changed since those first wonderings
when all that was of concern was 

constructing our own narcotic

                   vowing

                   to go along

                   some natural course
but we 

drew the pin out of that ordinance
threw it on the road before us 
now we are but voices in our heads

linked together by rain

and rain only
     sitting all day in a picture
somewhere

forgotten
with

a kind of evening feeling

a quiet dusk
(c) 2017 Fred Whitehead 

as far as January Saturday’s go

my fingerjoints
by the wind were stiffened

yet with some hint of sun

in the grey my spirits

lifted with thought of winters ending 

with collar around face as bandage

I stepped

as lively as could manage out to the coop with water and feed

seeing tracks in snow leading 

to a few doe at the back of the lot

if not for that

nothing new to the day 

back inside 

I’ll hide from the woes that trickle without end across wireless

though tired I’ll read from a stack

leaning back in my chair

reworking the homestead in my head

until I sleep simply

for the sake of sleeping 
(c) 2017 Fred Whitehead