THE FIELDS OF AUGUST
The table is spread with Queen Anne’s lace.
Tapers of goldenrod glow in place.
Modest mauve milkweeds meekly bend.
Ranks of red fescue soldierly stand.
Intrusive loosestrife shoulders in,
A powerful purple infiltration.
With binderweeds along the edge
Creep flowerets of yellow vetch.
This scene that I am driving by
Is easy on the passing eye.
THE SCENE AT SWASEY PARKWAY
See how the shifting wind
Caresses the marsh grasses
Across the Squamscott River,
Bending them this way and that,
Scaring up little brown birds
Chased by the shadowy wave,
While unconcerned, on the water,
Dozens of ducklings circle
Around their mallard dams,
And cormorants sleekly swim,
Slip below the surface,
And bill up wriggling fish,
Eliciting jealous squawks
From two competing ring bills.
THE SUPER MOON
On August tenth the full moon rose
As close to earth as it ever comes
And lit the sky with a rosy glow,
An aspect as rare as it is handsome.
On that same day a minister came,
Newly invited to our pulpit,
And said that he was not so vain
As to be guided by fateful signs,
But that he hoped to bring some light
To help us define our destinations.
Let us hope that propitious moon
Illumines the journey we are on.
COLLAGE
Pieces of our shared past
Drift softly in my mind,
Flutter like shaking aspen
Leaves in the autumn wind:
Otters on the French River,
Haleakala’s silver swords,
Sea anemones aquiver,
Beaver woodcutters at work,
Red spires in Bryce Canyon,
Deer on a frozen lake,
A herd of honking sea lions,
Phosphorescence in our wake.
Shifting images coalesce,
Merge in a misty scene:
Bright moments of our happiness
Weave in a fading dream.
HANDS
They all called him handsome,
But it was not his face
I loved, though he was comely,
And his smile could erase
Any hint of gloom
That ever lingered on
In any darkened room.
It was his hands I loved,
Strong and long-fingered,
Hands that gripped an axe
With purpose and affection
To cut our yearly firewood,
Hands that drew the hoe
Between the beans and cornstalks
And arrowed our canoe
Around the foaming rocks
To where we had to go
To reach our evening campsite,
Hands that pounded tent stakes
To secure us for the night,
Loving hands that gave me
Memories of sweet delight.
THE AGING BRAIN
I don’t recall your face
And yet you know my name:
This is a frequent lapse
In my senescent brain.
A “stranger” smiles at me
And waits expectantly.
What will my answer be?
I smile effusively.
Or I will make two dates
For the same calendar hour
When a single destination
Is all that’s in my power.
Or the “crossword” that I know
May still remain a blank,
So tantalizingly close
Outside my memory bank.
I fear the day will come
When I forget my name,
Forget to return home
Because I’ve lost my way.
But I will brightly smile
And answer eagerly,
Remembering all the while
That once you smiled at me.