RIVERSIDE LILACS
Lilac’s sweet scent
And the Bearcamp’s sluicing song
Give my heart ease
Now that you are gone.
Give my heart ease,
But do not quell the pain
Of knowing that I’ll never
Walk with you again
Except in memory’s bittersweet
Though comforting afterglow:
The luminous husk of happiness
My heart will now know.
(June, 2014)
May brings the seedlings: parsley, sage
Thyme and rosemary frail and green,
Eggs of all sizes, turkey to quail,
Ruby red radishes crunchy and sweet,
The wild curled fronds of fiddlehead ferns,
Lambs’ quarters, dandelion leaves.
For rhubarb’s tangy sauce we yearn,
New peas, garlic, onions, chives.
Summer’s bounty is succulent corn,
Heritage tomatoes and summer squash.
Young carrots, beets and broccoli are borne
To the growing family’s midday repast.
New potatoes, yams and turnips appear.
With the sweetness of berries the meal is crowned
Before the table is finally cleared,
The dishes washed, the family gone.
The produce of fall is all about
Preparing for frost: sweet or hard cider,
Local beer, ales and stout,
Grapes and berries transmuted to wines.
Ripened root vegetables are stored.
Preserves, pickles and relishes keep
The taste of summer in our mouths
Throughout the winter’s long cold sleep.
WAKE UP CALL
Death is the surprise
Life springs on us
When we are not looking.
Even when we see it coming,
We’re never ready.
It takes us unawares.
Suddenly our dear one
Is not here,
Is not there,
Is nowhere.
Death does not care.
We care.
SPRING CLEANING
April twenty-six has been proclaimed
As Roadside Litter Cleanup Day:
Volunteer crews have arrived to obey.
Good housekeepers would feel ashamed
Not to be cleaning out cupboards today.
Lawnkeepers are raking off dead leaves,
Gardeners are turning up fresh soil,
While everyone else in the Northeast heaves
A sigh of relief that April rains
Have washed the dirty snow away.
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.
A BACKWARD GLANCE
From my car radio come the slow sweet strains
Of Mozart’s First Horn Concerto, and I am
Suddenly transported into that Victorian room
Where we made music, seated on the piano stool,
Hands on the black and white keys, my girl
Standing beside me easing the smooth tones
Out of her French horn, and I am aswirl
In waves of nostalgia, longing for that ample home,
Those five ripening minds, their patient Dad.
We did not know what signal bliss we shared.
We hurried forward through a sacred time
That my heart now cries out to live again.
(April 2014)
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)
TIMING IS EVERYTHING
In April, driving north on Route Sixteen,
You top a hill just south of Ossipee
And in your face arise the peaks and flanks
Of Washington and the Presidential Range.
Fiercely white, they reign over the horizon,
An awesome sight you want to keep your eyes on.
But you go on and Chocorua hoves into view,
Clothed with his Sisters in somewhat mottled hues,
And they call out for climbing, but you know
The trails will still be treacherous with snow.
Black ice will subtly coat the shaded rocks,
And slow going may find you still on top
When shadows coalesce around your feet,
The sun beating an all-too-fast retreat.
Some shining prospects should be kept in sight
Until the time for venturing is just right.
(April 2014)
LEARNING HOW TO LET GO
The child’s umbilical cord
Is the first binding tie
Which has to be broken.
And then our nurslings must
Be weaned from the breast.
Nestlings have to learn to fly.
The yellow school buses
Take them from our doors.
We share an empty house
With an aging partner or spouse,
Who one day is no more.
Comrades wave their goodbyes.
We all go on our ways,
Turning into memories.
So let us raise a parting glass
To all the loved ones of our pasts.
THE TRAIL NOT TAKEN
(With apologies to R. Frost)
I followed the Great Hill Road,
Heavily sanded on melting ice,
To where it diverged to the wood
And found a parking space.
I took out my snowshoes and poles,
Tightened the bindings twice,
Set out down the trail,
And then I felt the rain.
The mountain had sent forth clouds
Which blotted out the sun.
Much as I longed to go on,
I knew I had to run.
Oh I will remember the way
To that white unblemished path.
I’ll come back on a better day
To trace its beckoning track.
MIXED BLESSING
Driving up, I heard and saw water
Pouring from a pipe above the door
Down the wall and onto the walk,
Flooding over the threshold and
Saturating the new floor mat.
Some welcome! was my first thought.
Here I am on my first overnight
In what was to be a snug retreat,
A refuge from the work of pain….
But all was not lost. The plumbers
Shut off the flow and I
Mopped the floor and hung the rug to dry.
I poured myself a glass of wine,
Nuked the soup and veggie pizza,
Turned on the lamps, sat down and
Drank a toast to new beginnings
Feeling somehow strangely blessed
By this most improbable baptism.
RELUCTANCE
How can I bear to think
That one day I will not see
Chocorua’s winter-white peak
And the Three Sisters Ridge,
That one year without my note
Pine limbs will bend low
And birches make their bows
Under the weight of snow,
That I will not add my tracks
To those of the snow-shoe hare,
The single-footing fox
And the high-bounding deer
While ice particles chime
In the breath of the winter wind
And cardinals still proclaim
Their expectations of spring?
(February, 2014)