on plants and other wild things
HANGING IN THERE
The flashy flaunting maples
Have had their say and oaks
Now hold their tawny sway:
Orange melanged with bronze
Mingled with hints of green
The eye is pleased to linger on.
And so too do slim beeches
Add ocher notes to the scene,
All joining in fall’s final fling
And in no hurry to let go.
Skiers will find leaves lingering
On branches laced with snow.
A tip of the hat to tenacity!
Why not prolong the final bow?
WILDFIRE SEASON
As summer ends we keep our eyes
On the ground for signs of fire.
Blueberry bushes blush unseen,
Sumac turns to red from green.
Scarlet ivies start to wreathe
Tongues of flame around the trees.
In the bogs swamp maples flare
Showing off their autumn wear.
Corner woodlots then ignite,
Captivate us with their light.
Yellow beech and tawny oak:
In morning mists they seem to smoke.
In the end we lift our eyes
To blazing hills and mountain heights.
THE FIELDS OF AUGUST
The table is spread with Queen Anne’s lace.
Tapers of goldenrod glow in place.
Modest mauve milkweeds meekly bend.
Ranks of red fescue soldierly stand.
Intrusive loosestrife shoulders in,
A powerful purple infiltration.
With binderweeds along the edge
Creep flowerets of yellow vetch.
This scene that I am driving by
Is easy on the passing eye.
THE SUPER MOON
On August tenth the full moon rose
As close to earth as it ever comes
And lit the sky with a rosy glow,
An aspect as rare as it is handsome.
On that same day a minister came,
Newly invited to our pulpit,
And said that he was not so vain
As to be guided by fateful signs,
But that he hoped to bring some light
To help us define our destinations.
Let us hope that propitious moon
Illumines the journey we are on.
EARTHLY DELIGHTS
Those who have waked to the loon’s querulous cries
And listened to the wind in the white pines sigh,
Watched the gray fox walk his casual way
And moose shake the water weeds out of the lake,
Startled wild turkeys into sheltering trees,
Waited for the bear and her cubs to leave,
Lain in the field to applaud the borealis,
Savored the syrup of Northeast sugar maples,
Chatted with the chittering young porcupines,
Admired beaver families’ dam designs,
These happy few have enjoyed our earth’s delights:
They will exit smiling into the infinite night.
(July 2014)
THERE BE DRAGONS
Beneath the Iceland ice cap
Sleeping dragons lie
Dreaming of the day when
They once again will fly.
And while their dreams are pleasant
They lie in restful ease,
But in a fiery nightmare
Their hot breath starts to wheeze.
So in the month of April
Of the year two thousand ten
Eyjafjallajokull
Awakened once again.
The melting ice above him
Flooded the coastal streams
And added to the outburst
Their blinding, boiling streams.
The earth shook with his movements
As he rose to his knees
And lava flowed like red blood
In rhythm with his keens.
Until he launched a geyser
With his desperate dragon roar:
A tower of tephra boulders
That tumbled toward the shore.
As his fire at last abated,
He sank down in despair
With just some final hiccups
Of blue haze in the air.
But his neighbor Holuhraum
Has now begun to stir
So Icelanders are watchful
For new tremors in their earth.
And they keep the ancient adage
In the forefront of their minds:
Do not disturb the universe,
Let sleeping dragons lie.
LUPIN LAND
They call you Iceland, but to me,
You are the land of the light-flecked lupins
Lapping liquidly up from the sea,
Flowing like lava on slopes and banks,
Softening the once-rough lava beds,
Cooling the once-hot thermal earths,
Injecting beneficent nitrogen,
Fixating fine and friable soils.
Their petals are blue as the glacial flows,
Tinged with the white of glacial ice.
Like the ancient Norse, they’ve arrived to stay.
They’ll hold their ground, come what may.
THE COLOR YELLOW
Forsythia’s buttery bursts
Glow in the cloudy gray
April rain, and willows’
Key lime fingers sway
In the watery atmosphere.
I’m on my outbound way,
Gladdened by hosts of daffodil
Suns on a dismal day.
STOP THE CLOCK
Sea shells, the exo-skeletons of pulsing flesh,
What is this fascination that they hold for us?
We search for them like treasures on the beach.
They must fulfill some kind of inner need.
I have a vase of dried flowers and reeds
That I have kept in view for many years.
The purple hyacinths that now perfume my doorway
Will droop and fade within a dozen days.
Oh let me net the butterfly of time,
Sculpture your marble presence in my mind,
Inscribe the notes of every bluebird’s song,
And keep you with me after you are gone.
(April 2014)
ROWING AT SUNSET
Feathered blades skip over the waves
As I lean back into the westerly wind
That encases and straightens my arrowing scull
Crossing the cove to the river’s bend.
A raftful of cormorants watch me pass,
Rubber necks circling like periscopes.
Awkwardly, I too twist to survey
Over each shoulder the liquid highway
And pause, outrigger oars held flat,
To let a motorboat rocket by
That flushes up the black spectators
Frantically flapping in disarray.
They settle again as sinuous swimmers,
Casually dipping for fishy hors d’oeuvres,
And I resume my water skimming,
The sun as I turn a glory in my eyes.
EVANESCENCE
Tonight we see two moons:
One has fallen in the pond,
A fire opal clasped in prongs,
Caged in black branches.
The other moon is ringed in flames.
Knowing this moment cannot last,
We hurry to get a camera.
On our return, pale ripples
Stir the darkening water
And smoking ashes shimmer in the sky.
(Reutemann Road poems 1960-1972)
ALL HALLOWS DAY
Prizefighters, the trees, muscular and bare-
Chested, have shrugged off florescent
Dressing gowns, ready to go
Six rounds with winter, that old
Title holder. It’s the first of November.
We are out to resurrect the leaves,
Give them a new start on life
In compost piles where they will steam,
Reduce themselves to a stew chewed by hearty
Worms into a meal fit for the delicate
White fingers of April radishes.
Harvesting leaves is not like tugging out
Rocks or cutting clusters of grapes.
With wide-spread arms we hug
The feathery mounds, we press them down
Into the cart. My husband tramples them underfoot
Like hay in the barn loft, he recalls,
Dust floating up and people sneezing.
Chickadees complain. Gray squirrels
Brandish their tails. A jay keeps his distance.
Under the clouds a focal flock of geese
Shift lanes, honking for the right-of-way,
Ignored by a pair of hang-gliding hawks.
Radical tamarack candles flame
Among conservative pines and cedars,
Electing to cast all their needles off
In one annual fling rather
Than pluck them out a few at a time.
At noontime we pause. I cut pink
And maroon chrysanthemums for the table.
Bumblebees fasten themselves like pins
On the yellow stamen. I flick them off.
But that evening on the kitchen counter
A microscopic neon emerald bee-like
Creature glints on a pastel petal.
(Reutemann Road Poems, 1960-1972)