Journey around the Sun

 

April with Sleet

 

Along the beach

evening reverts to winter

gray, opaque waves

rush at my feet

 

cold

wet wind

makes me struggle

to walk against it

 

in summer

buoys and ropes are suspended

from the lifeguard’s perch

in winter

simplified shapes make shadows

on snow roughened by footprints

 

ski tracks write the winter’s history

on the wind-mottled surface of the lake

blue and gray streaks

of the artist’s knife

 

turning back towards town

I find ice

hurled against blossoms

scattering their petals

confirming my long-held vision

small fragments of beauty

blown away by storm

 

to me

struggling through each day

April with sleet

is the least cruel

 

 

Spring Flood

A bright moon

melting through river haze

pulls me down the river bank

to the brink of wild turbulence

in full spring flood

 

feet shadowed by the dark current

hands holding tightly

to fragile branches

dizzily I dare myself closer

while the bank crumbles underfoot 

 

 

Risking the Rapids

 

From one of the rocks that juts out

at the rapid’s edge

I watch a youth

shoulder his bicycle

and carry it into the river

 

he steps on a rock

in the current

boldly picking his way

 

step by step

he struggles to cross the river

as if his young legs could carry him anywhere

 

watching him

push farther and farther out

I fear to see the future

his risk becomes my own

as if it were my head trapped

in the bicycle’s triangular bars

I could easily fall

and be dragged under

 

 

Adirondack Hike

I have kept myself free

of romantic entanglements

since the last bruising encounter

so why did I agree to a hike

with this man?

 

he has dated women

from singles groups

whose idea of hiking

is strolling

hand in hand

in the park

when magnolias are in bloom

 

his test

of whether I am

a rugged outdoors woman

does not faze me

 

accustomed to enduring

Rocky Mountains and Himalayas

I know the wrong side of crevasses

and parched places

where the only water

is precious spoonfuls

from mud puddles

 

in the Adirondack wilderness

our feet post-hole in April snow

we sink to our knees

in crystalline mush

old snow

slippery mud

 

our steps up the mountain

slip back down

as I begin the journey

with someone new

 

 

Crossing a Spring Flood River

 

Hesitating to follow him

where he leaps from stone to stone

across a stream in full spring flood

I stand

tremor shaking my nerve

surrounded by winter’s old snow

like my own frozen energy

 

stubborn crystalline snow

thaws into spring

emerging from under ice

releasing spring torrents

 

finally I launch myself

mind purged of all

except the next step

right foot on this stone

left on the diagonal ahead

no rock to stop on

until the other side

 

on the new bank

I look back

 

I want to live my life

like I crossed that river.

 

 

Illness in April

 

After winter

how barren the branches

after illness

how desecrated my body

contaminated by virus

and medications

 

laying my head on the earth

where spikes of crocus pierce

last autumn’s leaves

I feel the breeze gentle

as a Taize chant

 

our car’s grotesque grin

is like my spirit

clogged with sand and grit

covered with salt rime

 

as if I were a yogi

thin as April branches

nourished on deprivation

I will purify myself

pour the spring sky

through the top of my open skull

 

 

What if the sky were green and trees were blue

and grass were pink?  You'd stop in awe

So, stop, don’t mow the blue stars blooming in the lawn

 

lie on the ground, inhale the hyacinth

while cherry blossoms fallen from the tree

adorn the lawn, like flowers of the grass

look in the tulip’s bowl and see

O’Keefe’s art reborn

in spring’s surprises

 

immerse yourself in awe

before blue stars in the ferns

plum-colored shrubs

clouds of apple blossoms

and daffodils

become no longer special

 

 

Spring Blossoms

When my face is against

a tree’s blossoms

the world is a cloud of petals

 

when I lie

under a tree

its flowers rain on my face

 

they are the wings of butterflies

against my cheek

soft as baby’s skin

 

the buzzing of bumblebees

blots out the ordinary

 

now is my soul

in a pillow of extravagance

 

on earth

the fleeting beauty of life

 

in heaven

every blossom becomes a tree

 

 

Violets and Dandelions

 

Someone comes out of the meadow

clutching a bouquet of violets

I wince

thinking of the delicate flowers

crowded in a vase

to wilt childless

I think of seeds

that will never form

never be scattered

to form more violets by the path

 

entering the meadow

I leave the remaining violets

and pick dandelions

though as a child

my hands were allergic to their stems’ white sap

before I even knew they were weeds

 

by the time I put them into water

their faces are ravaged

no longer beautiful

never to make seeds

to be blown by breezes

but briefly they were perfect

heads of sunshine

 

 

The Prairie Crocus

 

The prairie stretches sad and cold

no colors of the spring

too well remembering winter winds

and summer’s promising

 

the floating paleness in the sky’s

shredded wisps of cloud

cannot disturb the old gray earth

from endless seasons bowed

 

but there across the withered grass

vivid colors draw my eyes

lure me near and burst to life

where yellow, white and purple rise

 

bells of velvet petals

spikes of new green leaves

golden stalks within the petals

offer beauty to the bees

 

the sad old earth takes heart and feeds

its starving children – naked, scrawny trees

tender shoots of grass sprout up

snow is melted by the breeze

 

long before all other flowers

make color far and near

the crocus shyly fades away

and hides another year

 

 

 

Tomato Seedlings

I transplant tomato seedlings

that have grown from tiny dots

into delicate-stemmed plants

two or more in each pot

each with a cluster of baby leaves

 

picking up each pot

I have to decide which seedling will stay

which I will pull out

 

“Choose the best,” you say

 

I hesitate

before pushing myself to decide

taking one

leaving another

why?

 

choose the biggest

tallest

or, if two are equal

the straightest stem?

 

if both are curved

a random choice

because thinking paralyzes me

 

each chosen one I place

in a larger pot

drizzle potting soil and compost

bury the thin stem up to the leaves

pat down the soil

water the seedling

label the pot

and set it gently in the sun

 

those pulled out

dropped on the ground

lie in a mat of wilting discards

 

on impulse

I fill a pan with soil

press discarded seedlings into earth

helter-skelter

some in clumps

gone the individuality

of the chosen

 

I water them as a group

thinking: where can I hide from you

this evidence of my weakness?

my failure to be ruthless?

thinking

with guilt and sadness

I will see tomorrow morning

whether they grow or wilt

 

 

 

I Kept Forgetting to Plant the Cuttings

 

I kept forgetting to plant the cuttings

their tangled roots

rotted together

before I finally

buried them in soil

 

the leaves withered

I hid the entire pot

in a bottom drawer

not wanting to watch them die

 

today I open the drawer

for pen and paper

discover new green shoots

bring the plant out

into sunlight

 

 

Transplant

 

After the move

my potted chrysanthemum

almost dies

before I unpack it

 

in the new house

I bring it out

cut off the dead leaves

and water it

 

finally it grows

towards the window

one long spindly stem

awkward but enthusiastic

 

they say

you have to pinch back new growth

to get the plant to branch out -

my fingernails nip the infant buds

 

the plant begins to grow -

a cascade of foliage

a dance of leaves

repeated along undulating stems

an outburst of chlorophyll

upsurge of buds

potential blossoms

more precious to me

than all the long-stemmed bouquets

sent to me

before I was transplanted

to a new place

 

 

Transformation

On a milkweed plant

I find a monarch caterpillar

striped black, white and yellow

carrying it home, I house it

in a bug box

feed it milkweed leaves

which I collect daily

 

today

it will not eat

though I go out and pick

the tenderest leaves

I fear captivity

has taken its will to live

 

I promise to bury it

tomorrow

but in the morning

a teardrop cocoon

hangs from a branch

 

I photograph its jade beauty

until one dismal morning

black and blue bruising

discolors the chrysalis

the creature must have died

and rotted

 

did I kill by capturing?

still I hesitate

to discard it

 

next morning the shriveled cocoon

is trembling

unfolding delicate legs

and wings

 

I carry the monarch outside

set it on golden chrysanthemums

the butterfly takes its time

inflating resplendent wings

before suddenly lifting off

and heading south

 

 

Slugs

Pushing aside leaves

in the garden

I uncover the glistening bodies of slugs

 

sensing the unexpected sun

they send out pronged antennae

on translucent necks

but shrink from the touch

of my fingers

 

an interfering giant

I drop them into a jar of salt

they fascinate a curious child

turned malevolent

their agonized turnings in a crystalline desert

their mouth-like openings

gasp wordlessly

a primitive cry

 

I carry them to the faucet

turn on the tap

let water carry them

down the drain

obliterating my guilt.

 

 

Slugs in our Garden

 

Is God to humans

as I am to slugs?

I drown some in beer

shrivel some with salt

feed some to chickens

the garburater grinds others

I find one more before we drive away

and toss it on the mat to later

throw the creature out the window

alive, displaced and gone.

 

 

In the Garage

Cleaning out the garage

we dump a plastic storage box

of kayak gear

onto the concrete floor

 

amongst the neoprene black

is a tiny toy animal

pink plastic piglet?

 

I reach to toss it

into the trash

but it moves tiny legs

a living creature

 

“Put it on the compost”

you say

and I carry it out

 

on my hand

the pulsing organs of its abdomen

are translucent

 

under a layer of skin

its eyes are sightless

 

the tiny hole of its mouth opens

and it lifts its head

as if searching

for its mother’s breast

 

when I place it in the brown compost

I choose damp leaves

so it doesn’t dry out

and wonder if the parent

running on branches above

will see its child

 

or will a cat end

the creature’s misery

as I cannot bring myself to do?

 

hours later,

taking grass clippings to the compost

I am amazed

that the creature is still alive

rolling back and forth

like a fetus seeking a womb

 

I bring it a capful of milk

offer a drop from my finger

but it throws its head away

from the cool liquid

as if seeking the warm familiar

 

late afternoon

bringing it cream

in an eyedropper

I try to inject the nourishment

with each opening of its searching mouth

 

with evening darkness

I go outside

on a secretive mission

search the compost leaves with a flashlight

the creature is still alive

waving helpless limbs

 

my fingers dig under

lift the damp leaves

carry the nest into the garage

leaving it on the lid

of the now sealed storage bin

 

in the morning

I make another solitary trip

to the garage

and find the nest empty

 

had I found it gone from the compost

I would have thought “cat”

but now and forever I hold the image of a squirrel

startled but instinctive

leaping for its infant

and carrying it far out of reach

 

 

 

A Snake’s Death

Driving a country highway

you notice

at the pavement’s edge

a snake writhing

without slipping into the grass

 

my cry of anguish

asking you to turn around

and drive back

 

I want the creature to be gone

to slide into the field

relieve my guilt

about roaring over the countryside

in fast vehicles

 

but it is still on the asphalt -

only the head moves

and the last few inches of tail

 

separating them

is a long paralysis

that I will to move

but does not

 

its brilliant eyes meet mine

I lift

its leopard-spotted elegance

with a stick

surprised at the smallness

of a protruding organ

and the redness

its blood could be human

 

the snake opens its mouth

a soundless scream

a final defiance

 

I set it in the grass

and there is no more movement

you say it is dead

I turn away

as you

making sure

club the lifeless body

 

 

In the Church Kitchen

She points to a black spot

on the floor of the church kitchen

and hands me the spray can

“squirt that and sweep it up”

 

I bend closer

dozens of ants

coat a scrap of meat

from yesterday’s soup kitchen

legs and antennae waving in celebration

 

for a moment

time is suspended

my efficient friend

(who squashes spiders

before I can rescue them)

moves on to the next task

 

I crouch

and watch the ants eat

Jesus and Buddha in one hand

lethal spray in the other

 

my choices

to scoop them outside

into winter death

to slink away and leave the killing

to my efficient friend

to stop thinking and spray

 

I stop thinking

the spray transforms

all those individual legs

and active antennae

of a community feasting

returns them back

into a formless

black spot

 

 

The Seduction of Killing

The jihad warrior

strides across the airport

no hesitation in his step

he is intent on killing

as many as possible

of the infidel

 

Native Americans

prayed to the spirits

of the creatures they killed

for food, clothing, shelter

 

when I pull out the plants

that we call weeds

their scalloped green leaves

rebuke my murderous hands

 

God, protect me

from the seduction of killing

wean me from gloating

when killing the creatures

the insect

the spider

the worm

that make their home

in the kitchen

the house

the garden

that I call MINE

 

 

Playing Cat and Mouse

As we sit drinking tea

in the sun-dappled morning

wind blows the clouds

across an azure sky

summer fields stretch

from us to distant mountains

 

your cat brings us a mouse

releases it

and pounces again

 

we are reading poems

not interfering with nature

 

when you go into your house

and the cat catches

and releases the mouse

yet again

I finally kneel down

to protect the mouse

the brim of my sun hat

blocking the hunter

 

returning

you lift the mouse

onto a sheet of cardboard

we carry it to the garden compost

drape the mouse over a branch

a bloody hole in its back

 

I drop big leaves over it

to hide it from the cat

and from our sight

 

we are also playing

cat and mouse

 

 

 

Hummingbird

 

Hummingbird

hovering at the window

your winged body

frightens me

with its human shape

harbinger of good?

seer of evil?

oracle of omens?

miniature angel?

 

 

Frog

 

At the edge of the pond

a small green frog

squats half submerged

 

at the edge of the water

 

I crouch

watching and watched

 

 

Surprise

 

On sunlit curtains

a small patch of dark

a bat

suspended

from tiny foot-fingers

sunk in the fabric

 

its breathing

is the rhythm of night

lingering

into the yellow morning

 

 

A Nest of Birds

 

When I see a robin

strand of grass in her beak

I watch the usual place for nests

afraid she will build where last year

hawks raided

                             she settles on a nest of twigs

                             to warm blue eggs to life

just outside our window

within the corner of our porch roof

where broods of other years have fledged

 

                             both parents bring back food

                             to hammer into tiny beaks

 

the day I find the nest knocked down

two fallen balls of feathers

unmoving on the steps

I go to get a burial tool

but return to see the feathers flutter

the baby birds alive, unhurt

I lift them up

one in each hand

 

“Put them in the nest,” you say
“unless you'll feed them every hour
until they fledge”

 

would I extend myself so far

to feed them every hour

or own the guilt
if I don't save their lives?

do I return them to the nest

because I fear their infant instinct

struggling to escape my hands?

 

duct tape and nails secure the nest

instinct brings the parents back

to feed their young and cover them

against the chill of falling night

 

when morning dawns I go to make

a stranded curtain to deter

the hunting hawk, the crow, the jay

but find the nest knocked down

steps bare

 

taking down the empty nest

I vow to never again

let that niche be filled

 

 

Chosen by the Fledgling Bird

One evening as I walk a country road

a fledgling bird lands at my feet

 

its wings

not yet familiar with folding

make a feathered cape

flared behind its body

the shape of a Concorde jet

 

does it choose me

as the only other living creature

in a world of road

sky

hayfield

and no sight of the parent bird?

 

too young to distinguish me

as a species other than itself

it could have chosen the neighbor’s cat

 

I shoo it off the road

into tall grasses

hoping they shelter it

from cars and cats

it hops and flutters

as though reluctant to leave

 

next morning I walk back

to check the tall grasses

reluctant myself

to sever the connection

 

 

First Flight

The adolescent robin

so recently an egg

under its parent’s breast

faces outward from the nest

 

donald duck beak

striped breast

what does this youngster know of the world?

 

its parent arrives

grub in its beak

then flies away

 

out there is the unknown

an infinity of leaves, trees and sky

and a parent’s voice insistent

calling a loud and urgent connection

 

the chickadee and crow wing by

I drink coffee on the porch

the young robin teeters

on the edge of the nest

flutters as if drawn forward

yet clinging to the known

 

suddenly it is airborne

its wings know how to fly

losing only a little altitude

on its first flight

to the big spruce

 

when will I stand at the edge

fluttering

hearing an insistent call

from a distant tree

to take flight?

 

 

O, Llama, Protect Us

 

An unexpected presence

in a Vermont farmyard

of black-faced sheep

green fields and purple mountains

the llama stands tall

a mysterious alien in the landscape

yet belongs to our flock

a sentinel

whose half-lidded eyes

watch over us

that we may safely graze

our heads lowered to the grass

 

in the Bible

the shepherd protects his sheep

when they wander into danger

or the wolf approaches

 

outside Scripture

the shepherd throws us on our backs

and shears our fleece

his hands reach

to touch our skin

in our bellies is fear

he may require our flesh

 

 

After I get the Dragonfly out of the Cat’s Mouth

The cat caught it

I delay it

noting the details

 

its insect face looks like a clown’s

eyes like horizontal commas

mouth outlined in dark make-up

sad and in pain

 

its tail

blue and ebony

is bent

the segments contract rhythmically

a slow pulse

 

the back two wings are torn

the front wings start buzzing

one foot begins to tap

as if to music

 

suddenly hurling itself airborne

the dragonfly

hits the window

drops upside down

on the sill

 

I slide a piece of paper under

carry it outside

passing the final capture

to a bird

 

 

Beauty is in the Eye

 

We declare the loveliness of flowers

and say that trash is ugly, should be hidden

but there is beauty in the heap of trash

its jumbled shapes and colors, intertwined

in eyes of cats (Egyptian gods) there’s beauty

and in fierce shaman’s eye

of hawk and owl

though harsher than liquid eyes of dogs

and lacking love that glows within a friend’s

 

The search for beauty leads to surgery

of women’s eyelids, as drooping shows their age

though bleeding leaves eye sockets bruised and black

as if the surgeon struck with fist and foot

 

I look through eyes of needles and can see

where sewing thread would go

there’s beauty in these ovals of attention

that frame

small fragments of the world

 

Summer Came too Fast and Hot

 

Summer came too fast and hot

too much green

caught me

pale and over-clad

among bare, bikinied bodies

lying brown and open

on the beach

 

 

At Her Home's Entrance

a vase of yellow flowers stands

upon the marble mantle

 

she tells me how

cut once, the stems' veins drink

providing petals liquid life

 

cut twice, they bleed life juice and drop

dying stars on marble night

 

 

(After William Carlos Williams)

 

So much depends upon

a small black squirrel

on a circular coil of wire

 

above the white cat

grooming itself

 

and the red cardinal

landing on the tangle of bicycles

black, white and red

 

 

Composting

 

The men in green dungarees whistle

as they dump

tangled leaves, stems

uprooted summer flowers

into the compost

 

I take two broken blossoms

their odor

is of summers past

 

 

On the Roof

Weekend mornings

I take my coffee

climb the stairs

that open to the roof

 

no one looks up

to where I watch

from a distance

bed sheets on a clothesline

billow like a family

of spinnaker sails

 

the bridge and Manhattan skyline

are remote

wind chimes sound

a man walks down the lane,

a woman takes in the laundry

 

 

 

Picking Pole Beans

 

Afternoon sun blinds me

as I hunt

furtive bean pods

camouflaged

in dense green tangles

 

overheated

I pull vines roughly

my bare arms itch

from sun and leaves

 

I part the curtain of leaves

enter the vines’ cool cocoon

beans hang like pendant jewels

verdant curtains enclose me

human chrysalis

 

 

Ratatouille

Set out before our guests

on finest china plates

and raved about by all who dined

 

we ate some more next day

before the culinary thrill

became an obligation to consume

 

last night I set it on the porch

to take to compost in the dawn

but morning finds the cover moved

the contents gone

 

to my surprise

a visitor arrived

silent in the night

not bearing gifts of wine or cheese

but left the empty bowl as thanks

 

asserting that it claims its place

within the world we think our space

 

 

Preparing for our Vacation

Ironic how I rush

so much to do

and how I leave

my life of busyness

to a place where suddenly

nothing needs doing

 

restless, I seek

to photograph this place

 

by evening giving up

I watch the pastel sunset

cascade its color on the lake

 

 

Penetrating to the Source

 

On the interstate

then state highways

to county roads

we drive north

 

the paved road becomes gravel

the gravel road dirt

ending at our cabin

 

next morning I escape

paddling the lake’s long course

pushed by strong wind

kayak surfing on the waves

swept along so fast

past trees and ferns

that the far end of the lake

grows large

unexpectedly soon

 

luring me

through a narrow passage

bound by ancient granite

 

emerging into a secret bay

silent

still

no cabins, boats, or people

I find a sacred sanctuary

of etched cliffs

whose lives dwarf my lifespan

 

water lilies

and laurel flowers

grow on island rocks

a solitary loon surfaces

 

I paddle upstream

against gentle current

seeking the mouth of the river

which narrows

as if to the source of my soul

 

a beaver dam

stops my passage

I look beyond

to the placid water

like the soul who tastes heaven

but must turn back to live

 

 

This Moment

 

Stop the kayak, stop the world

lay your paddle on the shore

lift yourself to island rocks

to lie on moss and look aloft

 

pine boughs above an azure sky

are still as rocks or roots in earth

while wind swirls chattering leaves

caw of crows joins scream of gulls

and sun on lake surrounds you

 

don't think about the words to make

a poem the future will construct

 

In Vivid Night

 

I step outside

where trees are darkly silent

sleeping

or listening to crickets

trilling in chorus

to stars above

in the universe's vast but gentle darkness

 

tomorrow's morning glories

not yet born

are tight-wrapped buds

 

this vivid night

I regret

how digital devices

so often deceive

and draw me into

merely virtual days

 

 

An Evening on South Lake

Sitting side by side

each with an old oar

we row in lopsided harmony

out into the lake

 

we hear a chorus of frogs

the loon’s cry in the distance

a duck’s soft burble

 

we see rings spread on the water

where fish rise to feed

a bat flying low

across the water’s surface

the moon’s hazy glow through clouds

as deep evening slips into night

 

we will not always row together

shoulders touching

but tonight

this breeze

lake

loon

ripples

this man

this woman

are the eternal Now

 

 

Night Lake after a Summer Dance

At the summer dance camp

the evening contra ends

leaving everyone hot and sweaty

 

we follow the narrow path

and slip into the lake at night

 

I swim along the shore

away from the splash of voices

 

around me the cool water

washes sweat from my face

 

above me the stars are a summer shawl

flung over the lake and sky

 

I emerge from the lake

and slip through the forest

no longer a dance partner

but a solitary creature

narrowing its’ eyes

choosing its own slender path

 

 

Summer Dawn at South Lake

 

I am in the presence of Moon

the morning moon

marvelously white above me

reflecting on the lake's mirror

 

in the absence of Wind

rocks by the shore

make perfect reflections

 

above the lake swallows dart

the oars of waterstriders

          surge on the smooth surface

concentric circles ripple outward

          from fish feeding

moth moves through morning mist

 

I am in the presence of Tree

tall, sculptured home

of bird, bat, moth, and squirrel

 

I am in the presence of Bird

who sings the Word!

I am in the presence of Loon

the lovely loon

laconic sister of the lake

she looks at me

lifts feathers and dives

 

Opening and Closing Scenes

 

A film might open with this scene

a cloud of fog obscures the world

the morning mist still hides the lake

until the sun lights distant shores

and trees emerge beyond the haze

that thins, revealing hills and lake

the plot begins, as did my life

 

but evening mist on water's edge

curls like ocean surf on shore

making trees fade away

a cloud of fog obscures the scene

light dies as darkness comes

like consciousness might fade away

when eyelids close to end my life

 

 

Flipping the Canoe

Turning the summer surface

of the lake

upside down

by flipping the canoe

I duck under

and find myself cocooned in cedar

with sunlit air

still as forest

 

and water clear

to my green suspended toes

 

 

Loons and the Lake

Our canoe approaches loons

an adult with one young

 

they let us come close

then dive, the larger

then the smaller

like a repeating note

 

the larger surfaces near our canoe

startles

dives again

resurfaces at a distance

rises in the water

beats its wings

then calls

and dives

resurfaces

calls again

 

the hills resound faintly

but no answering shape of young loon

breaks the surface

 

from the solitary bird

a sudden cascade of grieving calls

echoes across the glossy lake

 

a large turtle swims underwater

the blue sky turns to ice

our red canoe is a narrow knife

cutting into the dark

 

 

Loons

 

You make me catch my breath

majestic fishing bird

when you rise to stand above the lake

as if to walk on water

 

you beat your wings and call

as if alarmed

and run across the water

then disappear below the waves

 

you surface far from where you dove

a distant loon replies

slowly you draw toward

the other of your kind

with warbles back and forth

your beaks in alternating flutter

until you're swimming side by side

without a glance at one another

your eyes don't meet

your language wild and foreign

but music to my ears

 

The Lake Comes to Me

 

Today

I sit by the shore

with backache

unable to bike, paddle or swim

 

other days

I might not stop to listen

to waves talking to the shore

and the shore talking to me

 

not see the summer clouds

in a watercolor sky

 

not feel the breeze

cooled by the lake

 

or white-cap waves

rising from dark currents

in eternal dance

 

 

Almost Disaster

 

I let the leader pick the route

the place to launch

and who we take

 

at his request

I lend the novice paddler

my extra kayak

and stand in the October river

to help her in

 

the kayak slips

into deeper water

faster currents

wobbling ominously

 

my premonition screams “disaster”

but its decibels are dampened

by my childhood

where I learned

to close down thought

suppress fears

and plummet into the unknown

 

following the neophyte

I foresee

with ever greater clarity

disaster and regrets

 

I swoop to free her from the rocks

pull her through a narrow strait

and hold my breath in rapids

where she

oblivious of danger

shoots through exultantly

 

an alternate universe is strewn

with the capsize I foresaw

in this one

I grasp the journey's end

with fierce relief

 

 

 

A Bird in Fishing Line

The river carries our kayaks swiftly

past stratified rock

tree roots

and swallow holes

in the mud bank

 

ducks

great blue herons

and Canada geese

flee from us

 

suddenly a bird not moving

assaults our vision

caught in fishing line

hanging in a tree

its body dangling

from an open wing

I envision the suffering

before it died

 

as our kayaks approach

its limpness becomes frantic struggle

it is alive

more tragic than if dead

 

pulling into shore

we gaze on the stretched wing

too far above the water

for us to reach

if we climb the fragile tree

the bird will panic

and we will break the tree

 

suddenly

bursting into frantic fluttering

the bird breaks free

flying far into the forest

 

 

 

Singing Scarlatti in the Forest

 

I see no other creature

but tracks of mouse and hare

and footprints, pronged, of grouse

 

trees in golden sun

sway with wind

they sweep the sky

their budding tips cavort

 

no perfectionist from 50 years ago

preparing her class for concert song

now tells me not to sing

but only mouth the words

 

so I sing Scarlatti loud

bold as an opera star

and hear the chorus, chickadees

wing nearer, sing with me

 

 

Coming Down from the Mountain

A hummingbird

hovers on its beak

above red flowers

 

I am glad I told the other climbers

“go down without me”

for too early this morning

ropes too tight around me

told where to put my feet

I was taken to the summit

 

now

before coming down

I hover

poised a long moment

with the bird

above the valley

 

 

A Daddy Long-legs Tries to Climb

 

A Daddy long-legs tries to climb

our basement bathroom tiles

but surely cannot know his goal

 

his lanky legs reach out and tap

explore the surface, then he falls

and quickly tries again

to climb ten times his body's height

without the fear that I would feel

cliff-clinging

 

he goes across the wall

and finds the mirror's edge

antennae tap that glass-smooth surface

like ice it slips his grip

he disappears; the drain’s dark depths

receive the insect mountaineer

September Morning at the Cottage

 

Past a sunny weekend

crowded with sailing and parties

I wake on Monday morning

alone in the cottage

everyone else gone back to the city

 

if I had left

the cottage would be cold

the fireplace empty

but I make a fire

that snaps

with twigs breaking

my knitting needles tap softly

to Ravi Shankar on the radio

 

rain is steady on the roof

in easy conversation

with the burning twigs

 

choosing this solitude to think over my life

I would give much

for a vision

in the blue-edged flames

 

 

Dying Insect

On the path

the insect is motionless

exhausted from mating

stunned by cold

about to die

 

its feet cling to a hollow reed

grasping the last familiar foothold

in its fading world

 

 

You Won’t Canoe with me in Inclement Weather

You say the sun should shine

I prefer

a muted solar disk

skimming under clouds of corded silk

and the gray metallic wind

corrugating the lake

 

I like rain’s silver dashes striking water

white light puckering the dark wavelets

logs like long beads jostling

 

under the storm’s opening splatter

a bird struggles to fly

against clouds streaming northward

a sapling on the shore

is bent backwards

with wet, flayed leaves

 

storms rage across my mind

I have no wish to canoe in tranquil waters

 

 

September 11, 2002

As we enter the church

for the service of remembrance

we are again

in those blue

empty

cold

cloudless skies

as to Asians

blue eyes are the cruelest

 

bodies fell

through space and time

as we all do

but accelerated in tragedy

 

a fireball through our safety

our illusion of power

 

now

one year later

strong winds blow

shake the trees

and gray, tormented sky

as we enter the sanctuary

tormenting ourselves

with remembrance

now and forever

 

while over the eastern mountains

a rainbow

lights the evening trees

 

 

 

The Foreign Tree at Bennington College

The last foliage not fallen

is a tree with all the colors of autumn

a fountain of maroon

red

orange

yellow

and the last green of summer

against the dark wood

of the college auditorium

 

after all the indigenous trees

are winter skeletons

this exotic blaze

drawing us close

into a mosaic of topaz

emerald and garnet

is a brilliant stranger

taking on Vermont hues

 

 

Indian Summer

 

Sun like summer’s

peels off my dark brown jacket

as hours ago

it peeled the morning mist

revealing

red-veined leaves

 

their vivid color

makes me burn

to ride bareback

into autumn’s fire

 

 

 

At a Community Tag Sale

Scattering old memories

for a tinkling of pennies

I see the back of his jacket

and his familiar curls

suddenly between me

and last winter’s coats

 

 

Within the Dome

 

The loud buzz alerts me to the wasp

within the lamp shade’s dome

in flight

then landing

walking on its illuminated world

antennae quiver at the glow

misguided bug, beguiled by light

blind to windows’ free escape!

 

but then I recognize myself

blind to see beyond this world

beguiled by treasures gained in life

although I cannot keep them mine

beyond the lamp when darkness falls

 

 

When I am Invited for Thanksgiving Dinner

 

Thanksgiving snow

covers the lawn and garden

dim twilight

darkens into early night

 

in the house

only one lamp

and the flames

from the fireplace

break the gloaming

 

voices in conversation

drone over

sounds of burning twigs

 

suddenly

an insect

obsessed with light

beats itself against the lampshade

with all the urgency of summer

 

it lands on the shade

a small green beetle

the shape of a shield

emblem of light and warmth

 

“What’s that?” the mother swoops

with handkerchief

grinds with thumbnails

 

“Why did you have to?” the daughter

voices my own grief

at the whirring of summer wings

hopelessly out of place

 

 

Dead of Night

 

Waking

in the dead of night

I hear

no echoes of day

 

reaching downstairs

my feet

speak the language

that was muffled by day

 

searching

I find

only yesterday’s newspaper

 

melt my hand

in the window frost

for a landmark

of this night’s journey

 

 

Sign in the Woods

 

An old sign

in the woods

its message long gone

 

but between the plexiglass

and the wood

are a dead wasp

two torn moths

and a cemetery of empty

six-sided cells

 

all dead

except

the silk nuggets

cocoons ensconced for the winter

like living words

encoded erratically

on a blank field

 

 

We are Autumn

 

We are two trees

trunks separate

for the first five feet

then intertwined

 

we are arms

reaching around the girth

of a giant tree

we are moist moss

and dry lichens

symbiotic

 

we are rough bark

and slippery needles

we are dry leaves

whispering to each other

we are October’s blaze

and November’s muted colors

 

we are loose rocks

careening downhill

we are weathered logs

carried by the river

 

we are sweating uphill

and lying with sunlight

on translucent eyeballs

opening to see

distant purple mountains

 

we are roots growing into the earth

in this place

that is our home

and will be our shroud

 

we are an autumn couple

walking together

 

 

Winter on the Beach

 

Winter on the beach

is clear

cold

and blue white

 

the waves roll in

and break like geysers

on sand solid as ice

 

smoke from distant stacks is motionless

 

the pier is stranded

high above the waterline

 

below it two ducks on an ice flow

slosh back and forth

they should have flown south

when summer

and the people who scattered crumbs

left

these two stayed

huddling their necks into their bodies

as I do before cold wind

 

 

Wind on the River Path

 

Wind

scatters my papers

back along the path

making me chase

until

clutching the blowing sheaf

to my chest

I watch the poems not rescued

folded icebergs

floating away

on the river

 

 

Frozen Flowers

 

A winter weekend when we return

a florist's box lies in snow

on our doorstep

the buds of rose and iris

are frozen flowers, leaves still green

 

I set their vase in snow, and see

forever youth and promise bloom

until the thaw collapses them

 

 

Flowers of Frost

 

With a stroke of my glove

I obliterate

the ice crystals

 

scrape away

flowers of frost

from the windshield

leaving harsh highways

of bare glass

 

you pour steaming water

on the windshield

clouds rise from our car

and disperse

revealing a feathery tapestry

of embossed ice

scarring over our assault

 

 

 

Sacred Grove

 

A host of snow-laden trees

are winged angels

with dark branches

silhouetted against the evening sky

 

individual trees

standing in their own lives

fall away

a three-dimensional forest

into the deep infinity

of night

 

a curtain of snowflakes descends

swirling in wind

crystals sting my face

the physical touch of Spirit

here and now

 

 

If the Sky is Eternity

 

I lift my face

to the white Heavens

where the sky is eternity

 

thousands of snowflakes

fall towards me

all shapes and sizes

like lives falling through time

 

some fall on evergreen branches

some on snow that has fallen to earth

 

some fall into the stream

and are melted into it

even before they are carried away

 

 

O Great Spirit

 

Our world has the wind of your voice

storm of your breath

blue sky of your vision

 

green trees are your hair

purple mountains your bones

your eyes look out

from wolf and bird

 

we dig up mountains to reap treasure

pile logs on lumber trucks

clear-cut hills that are your sun-burned skin

 

we are Delilah

cutting hair

 

 

 

Owl Song Haiku

 

In the quiet woods

snow piles deep on branch and ground

owls call and respond

 

 

Searsburg Windmills

 

Stark shamans on a frosted hill

turn their pronged trinity

of silver arms

 

worshipful trees raise limbs

laden with snow

 

the pale sun in the sky

is a motionless deity

behind gray clouds

 

 

 

Snow Guns

 

On the ski hill

a conference of snow guns

blowing snow

create a cloud

a white curtain

over the mountain

 

like white steam

snow billows

from the silver nostrils

of each giant

showering tiny ice crystals

on our faces

 

 

Interpreting the Signs

 

Along the old logging road

trees are scarred by the chain flail

their bark and wood hang like flesh

where the machine has passed

abrading their trunks

 

would I see ravage

if I thought bears had clawed these trees

or would I see

the timeless intimacy

of wild creatures

and their brethren plants?

 

in the white snow

shriveled black berries

fallen from nearby bushes

ooze a radiant sunset of color

mauve and pink splotches

of tie-dye color

like fruiting blossoms

 

if these were stains

from a snowmobile’s engine

would I see merely

soiled snow?

 

 

Snow Unites the Forest

 

The woods inhale silence

and exhale soft snow

silver paper curls off birches

pale leaves of autumn

flutter on branches

where next spring’s buds

are webbed in white wool

 

snow accents

the deep green of evergreens

standing like stacked umbrellas

shading the space beneath

my narrow ski tracks

fill in with drifts

as snow blends me

with the woods

 

 

Scriptures in Snow

 

As we ski

our tracks join

a squirrel’s tracks

embossed in snow

a sentence

beginning at one tree

ending at another

 

another phrase

made by tiny mouse legs

that leaped

dragging a tail between them

looks like a white on white drawing

of creatures linked in single file

 

many-lobed paw prints

circle and twist

 

an otter’s groove through snow

accented with occasional footprints

slips into the dark river

 

deep holes

punctuate the snow

where a moose wrote

and moved on

 

I long to encounter

these writers

hidden by the forest

 

 

 

Moonlight Ski

 

Under the year’s first full moon

you stop on the trail

and hoot the call

of the barred owl

 

there is no answer

 

the forest

is a network of black bones

against a dark sky

falling away

dramatically

from the bright moonshadows

into an ocean of night

 

the frigid air

strikes your exposed face

cold

like a physical blow

indistinguishable from heat

 

the moon so bright

its incandescent face

obliterates the man in the moon’s

familiar face

except when clouds drop

dimming its luminosity

then falling away

like angry angels

swooping across the sky

 

imagine your ankle twisted

your body shivering

yourself the wounded mouse

caught in the raptor’s cold gaze

 

as the owl’s wings mantle

and claim its prey

our human power

is mantled by the searing cold

 

 

 

Skating on Woodford Lake

 

Cautiously

I crunch across the frozen sand

of the beach

skates on my feet

 

I step onto the ice

ski poles in my hands for balance

a multicolored stick insect

stumbling on ridges and humps

resting on a tree skeleton

gliding on clear ice

 

alone in the center of the lake

knowing I could fall

and break through the ice

 

but not to skate is not to know

the texture of the lake’s skin

not to carve mysterious runes

with the motion of my skating

not to treasure the setting sun’s

golden light in the west

 

inscribing my signature

on the windswept snow

my steps leaving shooting stars

and calligraphy on the smooth ice

is a treasure worth the risk

of skating on the lake alone

 

 

 

Kayaking in Snow

With age we should learn caution

but like giddy youths

we make our plans

to kayak on the forecast snow

 

we set the boat outside your house
slide less than twenty feet down the hillside
so seek a longer, steeper slope
and lug a ladder, perch the kayak

on a snowbank

I climb, command the cockpit

and cruise, not far, but smooth the snow

 

so blind to how we ice the track

we blunder closer every run

to distant trees

until we stop for lunch

 

not knowing

how sun makes slick our slide

we persuade another friend to try

 

balanced high on snow,

she hurtles down the run

its surface faster than before

her thudding stop ends our cheering
her silence

our unknowing fear

propels us down the hill

where blood has stained the snow

and slapped our play

with grim remorse

 

 

Trees in Ice

 

After January’s rain,

ice envelopes trees

a coating of crystal

refracting sunlight

into gems

ruby

emerald

sapphire

glinting in sunlight

fairytale beauty

weighing down

and breaking branches

 

 

Storm Beginning

 

The mountain ahead of me

is a Chinese painting

of a few brush strokes

on a white canvas

its snow

continuous with the sky

 

my approach

flushes out

startled white ptarmigans

 

I stop

perched on so small

a snowdrift

 

a long-legged spider

scurries across the snow

it lives here

through all storms

 

the mountain’s threatening cliffs

skirted with rubble

look about to fall

 

ahead Deception Pass

filled with light

beckons

“metaphor” I think

knowing I must turn back

 

gray dusk closes in

snow beginning

softens the rabbit’s footprints

soon will cover

my tracks

 

 

 

Old Boulder

 

Newfallen

this afternoon’s snow

powders the face

of an old ice boulder

the snowplow left behind

 

sand mottles the boulder

and scars of the thaw

that froze

earlier this winter

when the boulder

was snow

 

 

Last Alpine Ski Run

 

Dropped off the ski lift

at the summit

I hesitate

until everyone pushes off

 

holding the top alone

I would stay

for this timeless moment

 

but wind

pulls me off the peak

 

I drop with talons outstretched

defiant that the slope

races under me

and up the mountain

 

swooping down the final slope

I land and shuffle heavily

towards the world of humans

 

 

 

Last Cross-country Ski

 

I ski all day

before the rain forecast

to dissolve the last snow

of the season

and now stand late afternoon

on the edge of the escarpment

looking to the farthest valley

where blue distance mists the vapor hills

and makes a river quicksilver

in the sun

 

beneath my feet

the ice-glazed snow

touched only by skis and sun

drops away to valley farms

that have nested

through generations of sun and snow

 

icy drips from evergreens

make me look up

and lay myself

in their branches

floating on the blue dome

 

until sudden breeze

on my sweat

chills me

and the dome of sky darkens

with gathering storm cloud

 

I turn

from the infinite expanse

and race for home