"Winter Morning Walks," by Ted Kooser

Here’s a handful of jewels from the Nebraskan poet (and former U.S. poet laureate) Ted Kooser, selected from his lovely collection, “Winter Morning Walks.”

december 21

Clear and five degrees.

Perfectly still this solstice morning,
in bone-cracking cold. Nothing moving,
or so one might think, but as I walk the road,
the wind held in the heart of every tree
flows to the end of each twig and forms a bud.

january 8

Overcast and cold. New snow in the night.

A sudden gust, and a mulberry branch
shakes loose a length of snow
that somehow keeps the shape of the branch
as it falls, and soon another falls and then
another, a blue and white nuthatch
diving and dodging among them
as it flies to our feeder and back. And all of this
without a sound.

february 16

An early morning fog.

In fair weather, the shy past keeps its distance.
Old loves, old regrets, old humiliations
look on from afar. They stand back under the trees.
No one would think to look for them there.

But in fog they come closer. You can feel them
there by the road as you slowly walk past.
Still as fence posts they wait, dark and reproachful,
each stepping forward in turn.

december 14

Home from my walk, shoes off, at peace.

The weight of my old dog, Hattie — thirty-five pounds
of knocking bones, sighs, tremors and dreams —
just isn’t enough to hold a patch of sun in its place,
at least for very long. While she shakes in her sleep,
it slips from beneath her and inches away,
taking the morning with it — the music from the radio,
the tea from my cup, the drowsy yellow hours —
picking up dust and dog hair as it goes.

january 4

Four below zero.

My wife took an apple to work
this morning, hurriedly picking it
up and out of a plastic bag
on the kitchen counter, and though
she has been gone an hour,
the open bag still holds in a swirl
the graceful turn of her wrist,
a fountain lifting. And now I can see
that the air by the closet door
keeps the bell-like hollow she made
spinning into her winter coat
while pushing her apple through a sleeve
and back out into the ordinary.

+ Ted Kooser