THE JACKET
It hangs in the closet
A comfort to see
And helps me remember
His arms around me.
There’s a faint smell of campfires
In the soft fibrous wool.
He loved to chop kindling
When evenings were cool.
That brown checkered topper
I sometimes put on.
It feels like reliving
Sweet days that are gone.
I can see it ahead
On a cross-country trail
Or a snowshoeing path
On the old Battlefield.
I’ll never discard it,
His lumberman’s jacket.
SNOW DAY
Thankful for shelter,
I watch the snow
Falling on spruces,
Coating the patio
Where pecking away
Are three ebony crows
After yesterday’s scraps
Which are blanketed now.
Thankful to have
No place to go
No errands to run
No rows to hoe.
Grateful for warmth
And neighbors I know.
SONNET TO THE FIRST SNOWFALL
Behind her wrinkled monkey face
An apple-cheeked lass still smiles
At the wintry woods as a welcoming place:
The trails ahead beckon for miles.
But the creaky old back refuses to bend
To strap on the cross-country skis.
It’s just as well. Two turkeys send
Their calls from neighboring pine trees.
The winterberries wink red in the snow.
Ahead are the tracks of a snowshoe hare.
Her winter boots will suffice, she knows,
For a brief but rewarding excursion there
Where the red squirrels’ litter will be found
And many other treasures abound.