Category: RiverWoods/Tamworth

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.

EARLY WARNING

For all you leaf peepers who know

To come up to the Whites in October,

You may be too late for the show.

Our maples are reddening early.

Leaves and needles are brown.

It is only late September, but

We are suffering from a drought.

Some branches are already bare.

By the time most of you get here,

We may have no vistas to share.

Is this the promise of the future?

Has the time come to mourn the maples?

That is a most depressing picture,

And for spring sugaring it bodes ill.

NOSTALGIA

We look at old time pictures

To see how thick the ice

Once froze to hold our fish shacks,

How deep the hole to pull the pike

Or perch or pickerel through.

Those were the days when snow

Would drift up to the windows

And we would hire men to clear

The porch or sun room roof.

The yearly dogsled races

Were held on Winnepesaukee.

There was cross country skiing.

Snowshoes were more than ornaments.

Old photos show how it was.

GRATITUDE

Flame azaleas by the pond,

Redbud blooms have come and gone.

A house finch pair are nesting here

In my blue spruce another year.

May’s full moon is safely past:

We’ll put tomatoes out at last.

Down the lake my kayak arrows;

Tadpoles swarm within the shallows.

I thank whatever gods there be

For good health and longevity.

SIGNS OF SPRING

(with thanks to e e cummings)

Ice-melt upstream is roiling up the river

That foams and funnels under the village bridge.

Two feet of ice on Lake Winnepesaukee

Is starting to give way at the water’s edge.

Last week I heard the “cuckoo” of a phoebe

And tree frogs seeking mates with choral peeps

Along with “quarking” lately de-iced wood frogs

And redwinged blackbirds buzzing in the reeds.

Indeed it is Just spring.  I also hear

The sound of children laughing in the playground,

And listening with an attentive inner ear

The goat-footed balloon man calling me.

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.

LIFE IS A FARMERS’ MARKET

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.

A NOTE OF THANKS TO MY MAYFLOWER GIRL

Was it in the Sixties that I first heard

The doorbell ring on the first of May

And found your wildflowers at the door

Of that hillside house your father girded

With cedar logs and sturdy fieldstones

To keep our family sound and safe?

Fifty years later your “Free Spirit”

Roses arrive (I love the concept)

At my apartment, accompanied

By purple and orange tulips and green

Cymbidium orchids, as always on the First

Day of May, their Andean-colored cheer

Brightening up a rainy day

And warming my heart with a memory.

A REMINDER

This morning while the sun

Shone brightly on my breakfast,

I was surprised by one

Flake of snow, then half

A dozen in a swirl,

A billowing, a crazy maze,

A blinding white, while still

The sun lit up the haze

And shortly chased away

The errant bit of storm

Back to whatever place

It had migrated from,

Leaving me to ponder

How often the unexpected

Causes one to wonder,

Warns me to be prepared.