Author: Bev Tappan

NEIGHBORS

The house finches are back!  They

Did not wait for spring.

On February’s bitter days

They flitted insouciantly

In and out and about the

Prickly arms of my spruce tree,

Several of them for a while,

Last year’s nestlings perhaps,

Until an agreement was reached:

This year’s duo domiciled.

Meanwhile March has bustled in

With transient snow and wind.

Now that spring is in the air

They’re a happily settled pair.

DANCE TIME

There’s a time for Ring Around the Rosy,

Musical chairs and Farmer in the Dell,

And a time for jitterbug, electro-pop,

Disco, Eurobeat, New Wave as well.

And then we do the wedding march and waltz,

Virginia Reel and polka and all that

Or mambo, samba, tango, lindy et al.

Before the final shuffle with the walker.

So when the caller hails you to the dance floor

Kick up your heels and swing your partner round.

Promenade and bow and dos si dos.

Make the most of your time on the ground

Before the lights begin to turn down low,

The Exit sign above the door to glow.

:

WISHFUL THINKING

Carbon is not our only bane.

More dangerous is potent methane

Rising from every cattle herd,

From every landfill undeterred

And melting permafrost up north:

In cumulus clouds it billows forth.

Four hundred thousand Hiroshimas

Equal one day of noxious gases.

Oh for a breath of Eden’s clear

Unpolluted ambient air,

Oceans of fat unfettered fish,

Springs of water pure and fresh,

Verdant fields immune to drought

And temperate zephyrs from the south.

ON A FRIGID MORNING

They hang from the eaves like spikes

The fingernails of old man winter,

Translucent tapered icicles,

A warning to stay inside.

A blast of Arctic air

Has caged us in our rooms

Hoping the grid won’t fail,

Fearful of roadside breakdowns.

Some say our end is fire

But we fear more the ice.

We know how to deal with desire:

Hypothermia’s not so nice

Though if one must really go

There are worse conveyors than snow.

MELTDOWN

This morning we woke to a black and white world:

Cars and rooftops, walks and road

Frosted in white.  Every deciduous

Twig and branch, every needled bough

Of pine and hemlock coated in snow

Which the sunset last night gave a rosy glow.

Midmorning the drops began to fall.

Drooping pines again stood tall.

Our windows were streaked with watery streams.

Sunstruck icicles softened and gleamed.

By noon the parking lot was bare.

Winter was retreating here.

We can’t yet call it an early spring:

Let’s see what next week’s weather will bring.

THE WINTER THAT WASN’T

On February first the wind

Leapt up in my face and opened

My jacket, which I did not mind

So balmy and soft was the air.

It felt like the first day of March

Roaring in, dissolving the snow,

Summoning vultures whose harsh

Cries raised my eyes to the sky.

And so they continue, these warm

Days with cold nights which cause

Our maple tree owners alarm

Lest their syrup season founder.

Behind us the two warmest years

On record and now a foreshortened

Winter: it surely appears

Our New England climate has altered.

Moon Memories

How many moons did we gaze at

From that first one in Craftsbury’s skies

That shone on the cross-country ski trails,

Showed the love light in your eyes:

On the banks of the Allagash River,

At our tent in the Everglades,

In the Lake Huron island campsite

Where our food bag was rifled by bears,

At a midsummer fest in Denmark,

In Aruba’s phosphorescent sea

And Saint John’s coral reefs.

Tonight when I looked at the moon

I yearned for the days that are gone.

A MEMORY

A squealing pulley, flapping angels:

Wilbur’s poem recalls to mind

Sixty years ago in Maine

I fastened clothespins on a line.

At my feet a red-capped youngster

At my back the veterans’ barracks,

Sheets wind-whipped as they were hung

Fingers numb and face wind-slapped.

When I turned to find my son

He was nowhere to be found

Playing hide and seek with Mom,

Laughing behind our open door.

There is no price I would not pay

To live that life again today.