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.
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.
MOUNTAIN TOP EXPERIENCE
We have clickity clacked to the misty summit
Of New England’s tallest weather-wracked peak,
Cog after cog dropping into their sockets,
I accompanied by my kids and their kids
(Hoping we won’t slide back to our doom).
At the age of ten I first ascended the trail
That ran from the railroad base to the Lake
Of the Clouds to the tip-top and down the Jewel,
My mother in sneakers and black print dress
(The last ascent my parents tried).
But I got to know Mt. Washington well:
Repairing cairns in the Alpine Meadows,
Boulder-hopping down Huntington Ravine,
Traversing to Madison Hut and back,
And watching skiers bolt down Tuckermann’s.
I have grown fond of the ancient rock pile.
It was good to re-visit an old friend.
STARTING FROM SCRATCH
Bits and pieces, odds and ends,
The Found Art sculptor rescues them
From long discarded bowling pins
Or Chinese combs or beaded etuis.
Just so from stardust, we are told,
From random protons and electrons,
Were fashioned creatures new and old
As chance and whimsy brought them forward
Jigsaw puzzles, each of us,
Put together by Found Art,
Disassembled for new purpose,
Recreated part by part.
PACING
On the first day of August I taste
My first ear of garden-fresh corn.
Not a single sweet kernel is wasted
And soon the whole earful is gone.
But with tears in my eyes I recall
A man who, perceptive and slow,
Savored each delicate morsel
As he nibbled his corn row by row.
He split measured logs for our stove,
Swung his ax in unhurried arcs
And moved our canoe with sure strokes
To reach our next campsite by dark.
Now as I hasten my days,
Willing the hours to pass,
I long for his deliberate pace
And the will not to live life so fast.
ON THE NIGHT OF THE FULL MOON
On the porch the women spoke
Of goddesses and wonder.
Behind the trees the moon arose
In glowing orange splendor.
From north and south and east and west
They called for strength and power
To meet life’s most exacting tests,
Lighten life’s darkest hours.
Then Luna, Goddess of the Moon,
Rose queenly in the night
To grant them her distinctive boon
Of clear and healing light.
She inspired them to journey on
Casting impediments off,
Aspiring to new horizons,
Daring to venture forth.