REQUIEM
The skeletal tree
By the roadside, in the meadow,
That seemed to greet me
When I drove into town,
Its jaggedy branches
Held stoically high
Whatever the chances
Of windstorm or ice,
Gave me courage to face
My ninety-plus years
With a modicum of grace
And a drop of good cheer.
But today it is gone
And I can’t help but mourn.
PINKHAM NOTCH: SEPTEMBER 2015
It hurts my heart when I discern
Our flaming maples brown-edged and sere
At that ebullient time of year
That brings the tourists to our region.
And birches’ withered yellow leaves
Are curled and dropping from the trees
Depressing my spirits seriously.
The Appalachians I have loved,
Famed for fall foliage brilliance,
May not deserve a second glance
Without their scarlet Redcoats.
I’m glad I won’t be here to read
That chapter in their history.
WHITE LAKE
It’s like dipping our paddles in glass
So clear is the water, so pristine the sand.
We watch as reflections glide past:
The pines and the hemlocks in orderly ranks.
Three loons are reflected as well,
The mother and father with chick in between.
Soon they will hear the South call
And singly take flight to the beckoning sea.
A migrating monarch drifts by,
One of an army toward Mexico bound.
And what is our path, you and I?
Do we too respond to the warm siren’s sound?
Or must we accede to the cold,
Settle down in our comforter blanket of snow?
A TIME TO REAP
A waterfall of crab apples spills
From the tree beside our driveway:
Christmas tree ornaments, scarlet balls
Calling out to be jammed or jellied.
“Do not waste us,” they cry. “Do not leave
Us here hanging to rot unsavored.”
And at church a farm wife rises
To offer her truckful of apples
For cider, for canning, for pies.
This has been a bountiful year.
The branches hang heavy with ripe
Fruit ready to gather, to reap
The summer’s production, a time
For thanksgiving, for counting our blessings.
MOUNTAIN TOP EXPERIENCE
We have clickity clacked to the misty summit
Of New England’s tallest weather-wracked peak,
Cog after cog dropping into their sockets,
I accompanied by my kids and their kids
(Hoping we won’t slide back to our doom).
At the age of ten I first ascended the trail
That ran from the railroad base to the Lake
Of the Clouds to the tip-top and down the Jewel,
My mother in sneakers and black print dress
(The last ascent my parents tried).
But I got to know Mt. Washington well:
Repairing cairns in the Alpine Meadows,
Boulder-hopping down Huntington Ravine,
Traversing to Madison Hut and back,
And watching skiers bolt down Tuckermann’s.
I have grown fond of the ancient rock pile.
It was good to re-visit an old friend.
ENCOUNTERS
When I see the deer in the meadow
I brake the car to stare.
They seldom allow us to know
That they like to forage there
Unlike the wild turkeys who march
Their rapidly fattening families
Into suburban backyards
Where feeders scatter down seeds.
A handsome red fox used to score
Always available dog treats
At my son-in-law’s front door
But we’ve learned to limit these
Handouts to creatures untamed.
When a moose steps over the wall
We take the flare gun in hand
To encourage him not to call.
When a burly bear knocks on
The window and breaks down the door
We know we’ve made him too welcome:
We know we’ve gone too far.
BELGIAN DRAFT HORSES
Huge and heavy-hoofed,
Wide-eyed but placid Pete
Gives me a curious look
While slightly shy-eyed Fred
Stares modestly at the ground.
Patient, they stolidly stand
As straps are buckled round,
Collars and spreaders hitched
And wagon tongues hooked on.
Twelve tourists climb aboard.
Our driver flicks the reins.
Fred and Pete ease forward
And then with a powerful trot
They pull us up and onward
Until we crest the hill
And feast our eyes upon
A long lake filled with isles.
Springtime in the Notches
We should have known what April fools
This winter was to make of us.
It piled the snow up to our roofs
While Arctic winds assaulted us.
We looked in vain for signs of spring,
For daffodils and crocuses,
But now in May it’s happening:
The woods are where the action is.
Below these west-wind-blocking cliffs
Beneath their blanket of dry leaves
Shy yellow violets persist
And Dutchman’s breeches are perceived.
Where phoebes and song sparrows peck
The squirrel corn plants its fruity roots.
Wake robin trillium are on deck.
Hepatica promises liver cures.
Dogtooth violets belie their name.
Spring beauties herald what has come
At last, unnoticed, unproclaimed,
Our longed-for time of procreation.
SPRING FEVER
The sap is rising and the stallion rears
To clap his mighty hoofs upon the mare’s
Frisky rump, but she whisks away
As if inviting him to come and play
And he is game. Off and away they go.
It is the season that does stir the blood,
The time when every river is in flood,
And my old heart is gladdened by the show.
BY A BROOK IN MARCH
Our micro-spiked boots crunch
On the icy trampled-down snow
As we scramble over the drift
Thrown up by the highway plow.
We’re next to the Wonalancet
Brook which feeds the Swift.
Today it’s flowing handsomely,
So close to the coming of spring,
Around and between its rocks
And logs, all whitely domed,
All smoothly frosted, silent
Except where it chatters on shoals,
Intent on its seaward journey.
In the forest beside us loom,
Caped in regal white furs,
Majestic glacial erratics.
There beside the trail
We see the blurred old traces
Of hoof or paw or claw
Leading down to the lapping water.
We pass an ancient tree trunk
Riddled with woodpecker drills.
We’re approached by a feisty red squirrel
Who blithely bounces onward.
At the bridge we make our turn
And retrace our steps to the car.