STRAWBERRY BEGONIA
It has such an alien look
My curly-edged-velvet-leaved plant
That hangs on a window hook.
Overnight it has shot up wands
Where perch tiny white dragonflies
Long-tailed, short-winged, each
With a round yellow body. Meanwhile
Under the pot hang long delicate
Red threads bearing widely spaced
Baby versions of the mother leaves.
The flowers are greeting the spring
Equinox or enacting a resurrection
Or else they are beckoning bees.
I call it my mystery plant.
ON THE CUSP OF SPRING
It’s snowing again and yet
The yellow crocus has bloomed
On the lawn, the finches are back
To their nest in the blue spruce.
Flocks of robins have landed
Each to claim his purlieu
His own particular tract
In which to cock his head
And listen for worms. The bands
Of redwings have returned
To the pond. We hear their chirr.
A bevy of female mallards
Was seen on the tidal river
Along with a Canada gang
Of geese heading north. The cardinal
“Cheer cheer”s his mating call.
And yet it is snowing again.
CHOICES
The wintry wind whipped at our cheeks
Teared our eyes and misted our glasses.
Before the end of the driveway we meekly
Turned in submission to its lashes.
It’s no day to venture onto the slopes:
Lifts won’t run be running in these blasts.
So much for our high school senior’s hopes
Of trying the Notch’s challenge at last.
Instead we head for the nearest mall
Load up on soda, popcorn and nachos
And find a film agreeable to all
Where the weather is less ferocious.
Sometimes it’s better not to try
Against all odds to do or die.
THE LAST WEEK OF FEBRUARY
We hear a cardinal’s nesting call,
Pussy willows raise furry paws,
Canada geese take a southern tack,
Syrup buckets are hung out for sap,
In soaring sweeps three vultures arc,
Peepers are piping in the marsh,
Forsythia’s buttery blossoms bloom:
Who knew that spring would come so soon?
Tropical storms move up the coast.
In balmy breezes we’ve doffed our coats.
Ash Wednesday, heralding Lent, is here.
We think that a verdant spring is near,
Although in New England we never know:
There’s always the chance of an April snow.
A SYMPATHY SONNET
They briefly grace our lives. We know
One year for them is seven of ours.
When we have barely aged at all,
It will be time for them to go.
In parting from our pets we learn
How hard it is to love and lose.
Happiness is not meant to be eternal:
This is the destiny we did not choose.
And when in latter years our friends,
Our partners and our pets depart,
They leave us aimless, wondering, at loose ends,
How to go on with broken hearts.
Our saving grace is comrades in despair.
Such grief our neighbors have cause to share.
MUSIC HATH CHARMS
(Inspired by the British boys’ choir Libra)
Making music is among
The least pernicious things
We humans know how to achieve.
Children’s voices raised in song
Touch our hearts with melody,
Rid us of self-centered sophistry,
Soothe our savage propensities,
Angelicize our bestiality.
While we sing we feel no greed.
No self loathing possesses us.
Conniving envy passes us by.
With ears attuned to harmony,
We open ourselves to beauty.
There’s love-light in our eyes.
BEARING UP
Arising, I open the blinds
And am blinded by oceans of white
Shrouding each tree trunk and limb,
Walkway, driveway and lawn,
Ruthlessly wet and stickily
Clinging to cars and roofs.
Hunch-shouldered firs and spruce
Bow to the merciless weight.
“Too much,” I think. “There can be
Too much of any good thing.”
But here in New England we
Have learned to survive like the trees:
Hunker down, put up with and wait
For the sun to revive us again.
ON GROWING OLD
Our latter years can be as gray
As many a tedious winter day.
The hours can be as hard to fill
As Sisyphus pushing a rock uphill.
We’ve learned what it is to love and lose.
To live this long we did not choose.
Some days it’s hard to get out of bed
And fill the empty time ahead.
On other days the sun will throw
A pink and orange sunset glow
Across the gray and gloomy skies
And we will come to realize
That like Frost’s snow-dispatching jay
Delight can come at the end of the day.
THE INN AT TAKAYAMA
Clad in our blue and white guesthouse kimonos
We sit at a low table
Where oval cups repose while tea leaves
Steep. Calm as anemones.
We have drifted in steaming baths, shed travel
Stress with western clothes.
Lemon lilies smile by the television.
From cherry tree to river
Finch notes drop with white petals.
Kneeling on the tatami mat
The innkeeper’s wife and her maid pull sheets
Smooth as just fallen snow
Tight across fiery red futons.
Later we will stroll along the shore
And cross the bridge to the three-story pagoda.
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.