PINKHAM NOTCH: SEPTEMBER 2015
It hurts my heart when I discern
Our flaming maples brown-edged and sere
At that ebullient time of year
That brings the tourists to our region.
And birches’ withered yellow leaves
Are curled and dropping from the trees
Depressing my spirits seriously.
The Appalachians I have loved,
Famed for fall foliage brilliance,
May not deserve a second glance
Without their scarlet Redcoats.
I’m glad I won’t be here to read
That chapter in their history.
THE ECLIPSE
Three oldsters sit on a wall to watch
The super moon’s eclipse, a sight
They will not live to see again.
The stars shine faint in the ebony night
As a shadow darkens the moon’s left rim.
This moon that bathes our faces with light
And spotlights the jet plane streaking west
In olden times would have filled with fright
Our primitive ancestors’ childish hearts.
A monstrous mouth they would have thought
Was eating their beacon amidst the gloom.
It is not without some dread we watch
The red cloak spread across the moon.
When barely a sliver of silver shows
We rise and repair to our separate quarters.
The next night we welcome the cheering glow
Of an only slightly diminished goddess
Who yet protects us from the dark.
WHITE LAKE
It’s like dipping our paddles in glass
So clear is the water, so pristine the sand.
We watch as reflections glide past:
The pines and the hemlocks in orderly ranks.
Three loons are reflected as well,
The mother and father with chick in between.
Soon they will hear the South call
And singly take flight to the beckoning sea.
A migrating monarch drifts by,
One of an army toward Mexico bound.
And what is our path, you and I?
Do we too respond to the warm siren’s sound?
Or must we accede to the cold,
Settle down in our comforter blanket of snow?
SEPTEMBER MORNING ON THE EXETER
In the river today the trees
Mirror themselves. As we paddle
Our kayaks we see double:
Two trunks, two thatches of branches,
Two patches of reeds, two blossoms
Of pickerel weed, two bushes
Of orange-bespotted jewelweed,
Two bare and barren wood-peckered
Skeletal hulks with bony limbs.
From the dark woods a hoot owl
Invites us to come on in, come on in.
Bluejays flit across our bows.
Wild ducks practice flight patterns.
The heron is no longer present.
A TIME TO REAP
A waterfall of crab apples spills
From the tree beside our driveway:
Christmas tree ornaments, scarlet balls
Calling out to be jammed or jellied.
“Do not waste us,” they cry. “Do not leave
Us here hanging to rot unsavored.”
And at church a farm wife rises
To offer her truckful of apples
For cider, for canning, for pies.
This has been a bountiful year.
The branches hang heavy with ripe
Fruit ready to gather, to reap
The summer’s production, a time
For thanksgiving, for counting our blessings.