Always an observer of the changing days
WINTER MAGIC
Every year we fall for it again:
The first white flakes, ski tracks on
Virgin snow, the new moon shine
On ice-encrusted lakes, rime-
Frosted lawns and shivery dawns,
Wassail and holly and Good Saint Nick.
We never learn that it is all a trick,
A sleight of the Great Magician’s hand
To hide from sight the blasted rose,
The bony skeletons of leafless trees,
Their piles of wilted, sere and crumbling leaves,
Until the last soot-blackened snow patch goes.
MUDTIME IN CRAFTSBURY
They look at us with calm.
Inquiring eyes, Vermont
Draft horse sculptures in barnyards,
Carved of weatherproof cedar,
Shoes as big as platters,
Pressing meshed Budweiser
Circles into a mash
Of mud, manure and chaff
Misted with fertile steam,
Essence of rural spring,
While killdeer dart and halt,
Concealed by tawny stalks,
Crying “I’m here! I’m here!”
Beside the talkative creek,
And apple-breasted thrushes
Cluster on barren branches,
Alert for worms that slither
Through warm lubricious earth.
OCTOBER SONNET
Here in my 87th fall, the tree
That I admire most of all is that
Tall maple which is verdant still
But flaming at the top. its crowning
Glory gives a last exultant shout,
A last exuberant glowing out
Before its embers lose their fire:
That is the tree I most admire. But
Since I cannot be a tree or emulate
Its majesty, my only role must be
To celebrate and drink a toast to constancy.
So here’s to beauty, here’s to reaching out
While standing still, here’s to blooming
In one’s place, here’s to saying yes to fate.
(October, 2013)
Snowfall sometimes frosts the pines
Bends them low, bowed, supine
Layers every twig and branch
Creates a winter wonderland
Bleaches white the forest floor
Covers every blemish over.
The perfection cannot last
Occurs to us as we drive past.