OUR ISABEL
We named her Isabel Damaris
For genial Grandma Belle Morgan
And one of the Mayflower daughters
Because she arrived on Thanksgiving,
But Izzy was never called Belle.
She played the French horn and soccer,
Built furniture, threw Raku pots,
Brought up a son with wife Beth,
Computed systems analyses,
And took to the woods in a tent.
She went on to home-groom pets
And cheer-lead her aging mother,
Who gives thanks every year
For Izzy’s affection and zest.
Our Last Adventure
We took the icebreaker out of St. John
With her Russian crew and Canadian chefs
To explore the rocky coast of Labrador
And mingle with the friendly Inuits.
In Just spring on the tundra in late July
The alpine meadows were in full flower.
Polar bears were easy to spy
And black bears lolling on grassy shores.
We bounced on kodiaks into the shallows.
Our guides carried rifles and went ahead.
This far north there were no more roads:
Villagers kayaked by sea instead.
Mission churches, schools, meeting houses,
Doctor Grenfell’s famous clinic,
Hopes for renewable tidal power,
Gemstones and carvings in the markets,
You with your daughter, still able to hike,
Relishing views from the sea-sprayed deck:
I cherish these pictures in my mind
Years after our Inuit plane flew us back.
THE SNOWS OF CHILDHOOD
When the northeast wind drops a snowy
Sail and drapes it over our backyard,
And the halos of angel choristers glow
All over the ebony bowl of heaven,
I pull on my wooley snowpants
And plant my boots in my father’s tracks
To help shovel out our garage.
Above a furry muffler and below
A knitted cap, my cheeks are slapped
Red as my Yorkshire cousins’, who once
Dug paths to the barn. With a small spade
I cut cakes as square as ice cubes
And fling them onto ramparts over my head.
My father and I sing Jingle Bells.
BRINGING IN THE TREE
Evergreens are prickly about being cut
And carted into houses. Like cat’s fur
They give off sparks that set off
Tempers. Brothers deride
Sisters’ choice of shape and height.
Fathers curse at bulbs
That flicker out. Mothers fuss
At bark and needles on the rug.
But when the final icicle shimmers
Into place and rainbow-colored
Fireflies ignite in darkening branches,
Satisfaction warms the air.
BACK COUNTRY TOURING
The waxless skis whisper behind our backs,
Percussion brushes. Our poles tap the beat
On the edge of the drum. Someone has emptied a sack
Of diamonds over the thin crust of the snowfield.
The perfect steps of a fox cross the trail
Angling straight for a hare’s oval snowshoes.
Here where lumber crews have clear cut the swale
A trio of whitewashed peaks smokes into view.
Sapling birch bark is gnawed into curls by moose.
Bears have stapled claw marks up beechnut trees.
In sun-softened snow our glides are long and loose.
The downhill curves we take with thankful ease.
We savor the last mile of the river’s edge,
Remove our skis and cross the covered bridge.
A RECOLLECTION
My father taught me how to fish
Casting his lure to the pickerel weeds
Where slender shadows would be seen
That could make a savory breakfast dish
When fried well coated with cornmeal.
At other times we trolled for bass
While I rowed and he trailed his line
Baited to make a small mouth decide
It could not let that target pass,
A treat too tempting to decline.
I learned to hold the quarry close,
Slide my hand gently down the fins,
Wait for the tail to cease to swing,
Then softly work the barbed hook loose
So that it could be baited again.
At night the horn pout were our choice
With bulbous heads and smooth black coats
And sweet pink flesh we’d come to know.
Their tentacles we tried to avoid.
Our lantern brought them to our boat.
My father and I were often at odds.
I wasn’t the boy scout he might have preferred.
I did not always heed his words.
But I can cherish this memory now
Of me at the oars and him in the stern.
FALLING LEAVES
They lift and pirouette in the pulsing breeze,
These brown and desiccated maple leaves,
Dancing and leaping and twisting, a phantom crowd,
Surrounding me and my car in a thickening cloud.
They seem to have some message they want to convey;
They seem to want me to stop while they have their say.
I will slow my pace but I will not come to a halt,
Whatever these autumn messengers foretell.
Bare branches offer an unimpeded view
Allowing the splendor of sunsets to come through.
Snow-dusted branches also have their charm:
Who strides on snowshoes easily keeps warm.
At any time of the year I’ll keep journeying.
The day has not yet come for tamely sitting.
THE UPS AND DOWNS OF ECUADOR
Agoutis and ant-eating armadillos,
Anis and toucans and bronze parrots
Are just a few exotic dwellers
Found in Ecuador’s cloud forests.
And if you ascend to the Andean highlands
Cara cara and condors will soar overhead,
Andean deer will graze in the grasslands,
Alpine hare will lurk in the shade.
Unique parama plants abound
Giant rosettes and grasses above all.
Downy and lidded leaves are found
Protected from the wind’s assault.
And all are steadily upward moving
As earth’s climate continues warming.
THE SPICE OF VARIETY
In Ecuador platanos are fed to the birds:
Dozens of hummers, tanagers and such.
In Ecuador mango juice is savored
And passion fruit mousse, but not too much.
Ecuadorians favor grass-fed beef,
Sea bass, camarones and farm-pond trout.
Yuca strips dipped in sugar are a treat.
Espresso they will never do without.
Ecuador is home to many climates,
Subtropical and temperate and more,
Which Andean cloud forests generate:
It all depends on how far up you go.
So if you’re feeling tired of deja vu,
Ecuador is the perfect place for you.
OUR PLANETARY PROBLEM
Our cabana overlooks an Andean
Valley lightly flecked with clouds
That keep these jungle forests green.
Before me hangs a feeder used by crowds
Of hummingbirds of every stripe and hue:
Tawny, black and white, scarlet or teal.
But this is an aerial warfare view
Far from a peaceful bucolic scene.
These winged warriors swoop and dart
At any color but their own,
Briefly sip with kindred cohorts
Then shoot the alien flyers down.
Who’s unlike me must be my foe:
A rule that every earthling knows.
AT THE RIO COSANGA
We left our San Isidro cabanas
And stopped at the bridge on the Rio Cosanga
To search for the elusive yellow duck
For which we were not to be in luck.
However, blue swallows sat on a rail
Preening and flipping their wings and tails,
Then dipping and swooping in widening arcs
Snapping up insects above the rocks
Where the river rushed in a foaming flood
Fed by the weeping clouds above.
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.