So far 2026 seems for me to be a time to write (a few short poems so far) and do little else except read and bear witness to events around the world and here in Canada. It has been very cold for many days. At least we have the bright white of the deep and regular snowfall. Visual art is on indefinite hold.

January

I

When at times I wonder
About the roads not taken
The woods and paths not wandered
The corners not gone round
Adventures not attempted
Star charts left in boxes

What not done or made or found
Not said or felt, seen or sensed
Conceived of or survived by
(We left the fertile fields to the foxes)

What to say to the questioning canvas, while
The white page lies and listens?

When attention is scattered like seed for the birds
Before the light fails
And the snow falls
When the will quails and cries, the fortitude craters

Or is this meditation in fact
The still point of vexation, as in
All shall be well and all manner of thing
Shall be well

The sloth crosses its arms, decides
To think about it later

II

One gloved hand holds the other
Another patient has left the room
The rest of us stare at the ceiling

The snow plow has gone by
The driveway now is blocked

Lean forward for the public service announcement:
It is seconds away from midnight
Do you know where your children are?