BILL PRINGLE

PUSHING PAINT


farmpainting

FROST IN DAGGER WOODS

The woods are opening up again.

The bones are bare.
The knot holes stare.

The hidden no longer hiding.
Where the great horned owl residing.

Ghostly flight with a ghostly song.
When the coyote sings along.

Rampikes cracking and creaking.
Or maybe it was God speaking!

The shadows from the moon are playing.
In Dagger Woods the ghosts are straying.

Fine snow swirling brushes up Merlin.
Beyond the reeds Leprechauns curling.

Or is that just ice that's booming?

Turn your head a new cast of actors.
Snow at dusk one of the factors.

In Dagger Woods there are no slackers.
Everyone tracks the tracker.