margo roby

Towards Her Winter

I pull open mom’s living-room curtains
and glance, as I always do, across the valley
at Mount Diablo. Two hawks sail low,
circling and crosshatching the air space.
Through a live oak’s leafless branches,
I notice one red leafed tree, a sunset
against bare branches and evergreens.

The others have given up and shed
their autumn selves for winter.

The Shaping of Silence

Snow falls. Silence
blankets the landscape,
muffles with whiteness —

lattices of crystal, whiteness
chipped, shaped, flaked — silence
smothers the landscape.

Sunrise. The icy landscape
through the lens of falling whiteness
creates new suns in silence.

Snow shapes silence, landscape, whiteness. Snow.

Margo Roby retired to write and finds she has less time than when she worked. She lives and writes in Atlanta and tends a blog, Wordgathering. In the time left over she feeds herself and her husband. Housekeeping suffers, but it did before.