YOUNG MUSICIANS
Their slender fingers ripple over the keys.
Their bows stroke the strings with graceful ease.
Over complex scores their ungrayed heads are bent.
Their unlined brows furrow with grave intent.
Mini-skirted or tie-shirted, they create
Music we oldsters gratefully appreciate.
This tender talent so pleasing to our ears
We know will ripen richly in coming years.
GRATITUDE
Flame azaleas by the pond,
Redbud blooms have come and gone.
A house finch pair are nesting here
In my blue spruce another year.
May’s full moon is safely past:
We’ll put tomatoes out at last.
Down the lake my kayak arrows;
Tadpoles swarm within the shallows.
I thank whatever gods there be
For good health and longevity.
BELGIAN DRAFT HORSES
Huge and heavy-hoofed,
Wide-eyed but placid Pete
Gives me a curious look
While slightly shy-eyed Fred
Stares modestly at the ground.
Patient, they stolidly stand
As straps are buckled round,
Collars and spreaders hitched
And wagon tongues hooked on.
Twelve tourists climb aboard.
Our driver flicks the reins.
Fred and Pete ease forward
And then with a powerful trot
They pull us up and onward
Until we crest the hill
And feast our eyes upon
A long lake filled with isles.
IN ABSENTIA
The first Monday in May
Slid off the calendar.
It mingled into Tuesday,
Dissolved in thin air.
The dentist could not reach me.
He wondered where I was.
It was an anniversary,
A day of grief and loss.
I could not bear to re-live
The day my sweetheart died.
There’s nothing that I would not give
To have him by my side.
Springtime in the Notches
We should have known what April fools
This winter was to make of us.
It piled the snow up to our roofs
While Arctic winds assaulted us.
We looked in vain for signs of spring,
For daffodils and crocuses,
But now in May it’s happening:
The woods are where the action is.
Below these west-wind-blocking cliffs
Beneath their blanket of dry leaves
Shy yellow violets persist
And Dutchman’s breeches are perceived.
Where phoebes and song sparrows peck
The squirrel corn plants its fruity roots.
Wake robin trillium are on deck.
Hepatica promises liver cures.
Dogtooth violets belie their name.
Spring beauties herald what has come
At last, unnoticed, unproclaimed,
Our longed-for time of procreation.
SPRING FEVER
The sap is rising and the stallion rears
To clap his mighty hoofs upon the mare’s
Frisky rump, but she whisks away
As if inviting him to come and play
And he is game. Off and away they go.
It is the season that does stir the blood,
The time when every river is in flood,
And my old heart is gladdened by the show.
SIGNS OF SPRING
(with thanks to e e cummings)
Ice-melt upstream is roiling up the river
That foams and funnels under the village bridge.
Two feet of ice on Lake Winnepesaukee
Is starting to give way at the water’s edge.
Last week I heard the “cuckoo” of a phoebe
And tree frogs seeking mates with choral peeps
Along with “quarking” lately de-iced wood frogs
And redwinged blackbirds buzzing in the reeds.
Indeed it is Just spring. I also hear
The sound of children laughing in the playground,
And listening with an attentive inner ear
The goat-footed balloon man calling me.
ON THE FIRST DAY OF APRIL
As they circle and soar
In wide leisurely glides
The western sun silvers
Their wings’ undersides:
Four ebony vultures
On a springtime patrol
Back from the southlands
To clean up our roads
While a pale full moon
On the eastern horizon
Rises to bestow
A benevolent benison
And at the small pond
Two redwings chatter
To welcome the emergence
Of ice-free water.
ON THE LAST DAY OF MARCH
The wind has wielded a brush and comb
To tease the clouds in all directions
Extracting fragile transparent film,
Wafting it over an azure canvas.
Stubborn diminishing drifts of snow
Persist in sullen sordid ranks
Along the gravel encrusted roads,
Reluctant to cede their prominent place
However much we wish them gone.
Meanwhile the red capped finches have come
To check out the top of my tall blue spruce
The site of their last year’s nest and brood,
And the first two turkey vultures arrive
To circle above the neighborhood:
I will lift up mine eyes for signs of spring.
BY A BROOK IN MARCH
Our micro-spiked boots crunch
On the icy trampled-down snow
As we scramble over the drift
Thrown up by the highway plow.
We’re next to the Wonalancet
Brook which feeds the Swift.
Today it’s flowing handsomely,
So close to the coming of spring,
Around and between its rocks
And logs, all whitely domed,
All smoothly frosted, silent
Except where it chatters on shoals,
Intent on its seaward journey.
In the forest beside us loom,
Caped in regal white furs,
Majestic glacial erratics.
There beside the trail
We see the blurred old traces
Of hoof or paw or claw
Leading down to the lapping water.
We pass an ancient tree trunk
Riddled with woodpecker drills.
We’re approached by a feisty red squirrel
Who blithely bounces onward.
At the bridge we make our turn
And retrace our steps to the car.
TRANSITION
Here on the cusp of spring
The foxy Prince of Darkness
Will retreat to his lonesome lair
Leaving the fair Persephone
To soften the icy winds
And water the snowbanks down.
March has come in like a lion
And is leaving like T Rex.
Polar glaciers dissolve:
The cold descends to us.
We cheer to see the grass
Emerge from rotting snow.
The jay and the chickadee lisp
Their piece to potential mates.
But Persephone will do well
To free us from winter’s clutch.
The light at the end of the tunnel
MAY be the summer’s sun
And Persephone MAY return
To her darksome winter home.
REJUVENATION
Whenever you are near
Laughter rises up in me
Like sap in a maple tree.
Whenever you are here
Words tumble out of me
Like coins in a slot machine
When somebody hits the jackpot.
And though I know I ought
To avoid this beckoning eddy
And steer into calmer waters,
Bubbles rise in my champagne
And age no longer trammels me.
Old birds have leave to sing
However short their spring.