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.
COMPLIANCE
(Grandma Lillie)
White and wispy as spun sugar, her hair
Is still damp from the rollers. Our arrival
Has taken her by surprise. She sits on her porch
In the only aluminum chair left, her doll
Legs dangling. Gravity has collapsed her
One inch with each calcium-starved disk.
She says she has no neck and cannot wear
The gemstone pendants we’ve given her.
She hadn’t thought it would come to this,
Her porch bare of philodendron, now
Twisting heart=shaped leaves at the neighbor’s.
Her sister says the nursing home is pleasant.
She doesn’t know what to expect. She’ll take
An African violet with her and a rocking
Chair. She’ll try to bloom where she is
Planted. Her voice is thin as a harpsichord note.
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.
OUTLOOKS
Not every opening
Is a crevasse
A crack in the ice
An earthquake fissure
Or avalanche launcher.
There are breaks in the clouds
Job opportunities
A sermon’s first words
Clearings in forests
And strokes of good luck.
Whether the gate be
Elysian or Stygian
Depends on whether
The eye looks up
Or keeps to the ground.
THE CHOICE
In autumn the golden willow weeps
While saffron leaves still cling to the beech.
In a lengthening line we’ve come to stand
For the water of life in an arid land.
As wildfires rage in southern climes
As aquifers shrink, as wells go dry
We hold our protest signs up high.
Cars honk approval as they go by.
It’s oil or water: they do not mix.
In the end the choice comes down to this:
We’ll keep the petrol in the ground
Or life on earth will no longer be found.
This morning black ice, a dusting of white
Remind us of winter’s implacable might.
WAKE UP CALLS
I heard the crows; their raucous cries
Awoke me from a restless bed.
I did not know what rude surprise
Their harsh insistence might portend.
The day was sunlit, clear and cold.
I saw no reason for alarm,
But on my neighbor’s patio
The usual bread for birds was gone.
And then it was I understood
What their complaints had been about.
No imminent evil was foretold,
Just calls to send their vittles out.
So let it be with all alarms:
False, and signaling no harm.
WHITE MOUNTAIN ART
The artists stayed in grand hotels
Leaving in payment for their keep
Saleable oils or watercolors
Where light flickers through lacy leaves
Bounces off rocks and sheep or cows
Gleams on waterfalls and soars
All unconfined to the mountaintops.
Always something catches the eye
In the foreground – a red coat or a dog.
The trees are finely drawn and shadowed.
You can tell weather by the clouds
In skies of varied blues and grays.
These pictures are easy to live with.
Small as postcards or too big to hang
On parlor walls, they hide themselves
Murky with dust in farmhouse auctions.
Today we point the lens at the mountain:
Snow flocks the firs on high ridges.
The alabaster peaks are carved
Chrystal sharp by the cold blue air.
Among the hardwoods a smoldering fire
Of fall foliage lingers – beech,
Birch and the last of the sugar maples.
Catching the eye in the foreground, framed
By telephone poles, lettered in gold
Is the sign of the Up Country Saloon.
A SHOW OF COLORS
At first we thought the lengthy drought
Would quench our usual fires of fall
And we would enter winter without
Our annual foliage spectacle,
For many of our trees went brown
As summer neared its torpid end
And leaves dropped serely on the ground.
What else could this sad sight portend?
Some say that trees can communicate
By underground telegraphic systems.
Perhaps they sent word to their forest mates
That the time had come to show resistance.
So our maples were able to concentrate,
Condense their chromosomes and atoms
And flare up in a blinding last display
Of death-defying radiant patterns.
ON OCTOBER 12
A cacophony of geese flew by
As drivers all used to do
Honk, honk honking vociferously
In the streets of Lima, Peru.
As we watched, they shifted formation
Forming two separate Vees
But maintaining their congregation
With graceful and admirable ease.
We knew where they were headed
Though they were soon out of sight
Bound for warm waters, determined
To leave behind long wintry nights
And we applauded their foresight
Well aware that their instinct was right.
ON PERFECTION
The moon was a crescent ornament
On the ebony curtain of night
Hung by a master scene maker
A mesmerizing sight.
I could not take my eyes off it.
It glued me to the screen
Too perfect for my mortal eyes
Unused to a flawless scene.
We need limits to our horizons
Some rain in desert climes.
Our heroes are not paragons
Nor our ointments without flies.
So I’ll welcome a cloudcast moon
And not expect heaven too soon.