Frost Work,
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich, 1882
(from National Wildlife’s December Treasury, 1985)
Category: VT Poetic
Apology (to the house)
Now that summer has abandoned me for good,
and I’ve packed up the picnic baskets and the flip flops,
I surrender to hearth & home,
to cooking and cleaning and creating again,
To tackling all the clutter that crept up in the crevices of neglect while i languished
perfectly productive afternoons beside the pond.
Once resenting, now grateful
to the Cold, who
Tidies the land–the brush, the unmowed grass, the garden
and aligns Everything,
Even
the bare branches and the naked forest to the single aim of staying
Warm.
And finally grateful too,
like a matured child,
to this familiar House,
Whose weight I railed against each summer day,
longing to be free of the mundane
But now, as the days grow short,
and the nights grow long,
and the skies begins to flurry,
I toss aside my petulance,
embracing this steady companion
called home.
Evicted
Another gentle October morning
except at the pond, where
thousands
of refugees,
evicted from
trees,
slowly push South,
in a current of loss
carrying with them, the heavy
hope
of
return.
this october morning
this october morning
is as tender
as a lover’s face;
as gentle
as a baby’s hand;
as lovely
as a mother’s kiss
this october morning
softens me into a child
dashing after a falling leaf
grasping it with glee
thinking myself an angel
breaking its fall
but i had cut short
its graceful decent,
its last dance,
its farewell song
i climb to the top of the stairs
in penance
and release my capture
to the air…
in silent
surrender
of
youth.
Regatta
While everyone is back at school
or at work,
the last rays of summer
speed West across South Pond
in a zillion points of white.
Like a city-scape
reflecting into space,
the competition is so dense
as to render the
deepest waters
white.
Amidst these miniature mariners of light,
a
single
Loon
propels himself
in the opposite
direction,
heading East
Chasing summer
in a one-man Olympic event–
His flamboyant breast stroke
Knocking tiny boats into the breeze.
His mate
no where to be seen.
Closer still,
the wind picks up
flattening white sails
against water
while others furiously tack
toward the Finish line.
I close my eyes,
unable to bear such weight,
waiting for
the
Sails to drop
the
Sailors to go home
the
Waters to still
and
the
single
Loon
to call for his
Mate
in the silent
repose
of
Summer’s
Surrender.
This Vermont Life 