Moon Memories
How many moons did we gaze at
From that first one in Craftsbury’s skies
That shone on the cross-country ski trails,
Showed the love light in your eyes:
On the banks of the Allagash River,
At our tent in the Everglades,
In the Lake Huron island campsite
Where our food bag was rifled by bears,
At a midsummer fest in Denmark,
In Aruba’s phosphorescent sea
And Saint John’s coral reefs.
Tonight when I looked at the moon
I yearned for the days that are gone.
The Woods in Winter
When the snow blows up and sideways
And a white mist fills the air,
When spruces, pines and hemlocks
Have donned white winter wear,
When rocks in the mountain rivers
Are circled by collars of rime
And snow on the boulders’ shoulders
Wraps them in capes of ermine,
Then I must take to the woods,
Set my boots on snow-packed trails,
Follow the tracks of deer,
Coyotes and snowshoe hares,
Rejoice in the white open spaces,
Respond to the call of wild places.
A MEMORY
A squealing pulley, flapping angels:
Wilbur’s poem recalls to mind
Sixty years ago in Maine
I fastened clothespins on a line.
At my feet a red-capped youngster
At my back the veterans’ barracks,
Sheets wind-whipped as they were hung
Fingers numb and face wind-slapped.
When I turned to find my son
He was nowhere to be found
Playing hide and seek with Mom,
Laughing behind our open door.
There is no price I would not pay
To live that life again today.
TREES
In years past I’ve laid my hand
On many a smooth-barked tree
On many a mountain trail
And looked up to shallow-rooted
Pines standing stately and tall.
Like Rob Frost I’ve envied the birches
That bend under burdens of snow
In graceful compliant submission,
Then rise up again in the spring
To shake their new leaves in the sun.
Now it’s limb-lopped but upright
Old skeletal trees that I notice
On country roads or in paintings,
Woodpecker raddled and ravaged
By age that I chiefly admire.