A Winter Memory

Before civilization moved in, settled
at the far reaches of town, people becoming
more than summer visitors visiting,
becoming residents staying, setting up hearth and home,
before it was Pleasant Street, numbered addresses, civilized,
for a few winter months it was snow-covered landscape,
unplowed, left unused till springtime melt and thaw,
and the hill, slow and winding, was ours:
youths’ voices, clear and loud, echoing in winter's chill,
to mount our sleds, push off, and glide, slide
downward, down, leaning right and left,
controlled path, picking up speed,
gaining momentum, and momentum gained
to spill us out across the snow -
memories of a childhood now, spilling out, calling out,
clear and loud, echoing through time gone by.

Christmas at the Lake

Christmas at the lake is special, as it should be, tucked away up here in the quiet of the woods, the summer lake people gone, too cold now for the noise of summer – swimming, boating, the docks long ago pulled in against the ice forming at the water’s edge. There are a few hearty souls staying here year ‘round, us among them, our own small community separated though we be by forests, thick and silent, and camps, empty now, closed up, shut down, but we can hear each other, this small community,  now and then in the clear air we share, a rare car laboring up the hill, a lone dog barking in the distance, or the sound of an axe swinging, chopping firewood, kindling, to stoke the home fires burning low, warming our spirits even as it warms our bodies.

And at night, this night, a clear night, dark but for the stars above, bright in the crisp air of winter, dark and clear and still, we stare out, cold, wrapped in blankets and wrapped within ourselves, staring out at the dark water melding into the distant shore and sky above, and staring there, listening, we can hear within us and around us in the clear air the words made more meaningful in the darkness, in the stillness of this night, December 24^th, Christmas Eve: “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright”; this we can hear and this we can know, “Christ the savior is born; Christ the savior is born.”

A Christmas Poem

Christmas Eve and his sleigh bells

jangled outside my windows, frosted over,

crystalized cold; and a shadow crossed the panes.

Snow, too, was falling, lightly, the air crisp

and cold, unmuffled; his sleigh bells

clearly I could hear, and the whoosh of his sleigh

rising above my roof, to settle there,

the footfalls of hooves, touching down,

the ache of leather harnesses stretching

taut, groaning in the winter air. 

Or was I dreaming, a Christmas dream, this adult in me

still wanting to believe, believe what years ago

they told me wasn’t true, that Santa

was but a story to outgrow, a story told to children

eager for Christmas morning, even as I lay here now,

eager still, my thoughts drifting away

and back to childhood, my own childhood

of Santa Claus and Christmas trees,

presents wrapped and bowed, believing, as I always have,

they came from Santa, the North Pole,

delivered down my chimney while I slept,

Santa at the mall upon whose lap I sat,

detailed list ready, recited, believing

and hoping as, my stocking hung, into bed I climbed,

early, without fuss, Christmas Eve, eager

with sleep not coming, not then, not now,
laying here, restless and listening, hearing

the sleigh bells jangle outside my window,

footfalls of hooves soft and the ache

of leather harnesses stretched taut

groaning in the winter air.

Late Fall … Beyond the Indian Summers

Late fall, winter weather moving in beyond the Indian Summers of autumn’s warmer days. The trees stand bare, a few leaves dry and hanging on, shaking a fist in defiance at the winds that stripped bare and scattered other leaves more ready to let go, completing this cycle of nature, spring growth to summer richness to fall’s letting go, the way of all things. The days are growing shorter, and we rise in darkness and settle for the night early, the darkness settling among the trees, over the lake, black now, the light gone out, replaced by incandescence shining through glass, light held inside as we, settling ourselves against the dropping temperatures and darkness, restful at the end of the day, warmed within these walls, red wine, a merlot rich and red, mellowing the short hours before sleep, our silence broken by the haunting call of an owl unseen, a warning of night time waking, a world we cannot share, cannot know, diurnal creatures that we be, ill-equipped for darkness. But we are content here now, behind closed doors, locked in tight against the darkness, against the cold, warmed by the silence, a glass of merlot – rich and red – and the company we keep, the two of us, growing older, content in this our autumn, winter weather moving in beyond the Indian Summers of our lives.

Downtown

I’ve described it as a dot on a map, this small-town-Maine I’m moving to, soon, late in my life, a dot on Route 15, north through Monson to Greenville, Greenville with its lake, its shops and restaurants, Vacationland at its best, a reason to be there. But Monson, to the south, another small town in a succession of small towns - Sangerville, Guilford, Abbott - is but a shrinking dot on a map of Maine, overlooked by travelers and tourists and guidebooks, a slowdown on Route 15, no reason to stop, really, nothing to lure people in, just a crossroad, an S-turn, a zip code – o4464 – a now-closed general store, a pub, a gas station, and a church, steeple-spire pointing heavenward. And perhaps, this is reason enough to stop, to settle down, move in, small-town-Maine’s allure, God’s blessing of a simple life, life slowed down in this slow town, down town, a dot on a map, Route 15 north, calling me to come home, calling me to stay.

Putting the Canoe Away

Today, it’s time to pull the canoe from the lake, store it away for the coming winter months, our travels over, our travels done, trips alone to the head of the lake finished, for now, for this season. The ice is forming around the edges of the lake, the nights below freezing, the temperatures dropping, staying low, too cold now, the ice melting in the morning sun, reforming again in the dark of night, reclaiming itself. And the hours of light, the time on the lake, are shrinking, too, the morning smoothness of the water whipped to white caps with the rising wind, keeping me land-bound, off the lake, fearing, as I do, capsizing in my inattentiveness, my attention elsewhere along the shore or skyward following the eagle’s flight, my ears attuned to his cry calling out, or, drawn back to earth, watching winter settling in at the lake, nature preparing itself for the dormant months ahead, the beavers patching their huts, fortified against the winter cold, squirrels foraging for food to store away from the approaching snow’s cover, and the geese, rising from the lake to renew their trip southward, responding, as we all must respond, to this cycle of nature.

On the bank, the canoe, responding, lies dormant itself, where I left it, leaving it close to the water’s edge for an autumn’s journey when Indian Summer grants me a few hours of sunshine’s warmth and calm water or when the lake calls out to me, speaks to me in her silence calling, and I launch, paddle dipping, pulling, moving me into the lake, into her solitude, into myself when the clutter of my life needs clearing out, my mind and spirit needing renewal. But today, the canoe lies dormant, UMSKEE dulled white on green, upside down, listing to one side, as tired as I this day, perhaps, listing myself, ready for winter’s rest ahead. So I right her, keel flat, and drag her toward the porch, the door below agape, a winter yawn, to store her there, upside down once more to keep the squirrels from making it a home, a winter nest of fur and thatch, though I shouldn’t mind if they did crawl under the seats there or into the small spaces in the bow and stern and turn it into a winter home, winter’s nest. We all need a safe place away from the cold and wind, a safe place away from the winter storms of our lives, just as I crawl up the stairs to my den, safe and warm while the blizzards howl around me, rattling my windows and doors.

And closing the door, the canoe safely stored, locked away for the season ahead, I look once more to the lake, the ice still frozen along the shore’s edge this early morning, white against the black of autumn’s water, and the eagle’s piercing cry echoing in the still air aloft draws me to the other shore, to the tree he has nested in these summer months gone by, months gone by since I arrived at the lake, launched my canoe and journeyed west to the head of the lake, he and I both, journeying alone. He stretches out his great wings, lifting off, his figure stark against the azure sky made richer by the chill air, and begins his winter journey even as I begin mine, each of us going wherever it is that eagles go, wherever it is that eagles fly.

Early Mornings

Early mornings, the lake is calm, smooth, a mirror reflecting the shore, tree-lined, and the sky, equally calm, equally smooth, a mirror reflected. And my paddle dips into the water to propel me forward, the bow of my canoe breaking the smoothness, disturbing the sky reflected. My paddling is slow, deliberate, determined, paddle raised, slicing into the water, pushing back, pulling, and holding fast, my canoe sliding forward … and again … slowly over and over … pushing back, pulling, holding fast … the shore slipping by as I glide to the head of the lake, a slow journey undisturbed, quiet, disturbing nothing but the water’s surface, the water’s smoothness restored in my passing.

Smooth paddling, smooth glide, the canoe brushes the water’s surface, raising a soft hush as of beach sand brushed by the oceans’ tides, the water parting, pushing it aside, left and right, water slipping away to aid my passage and, behind in my wake, rejoining, watching, water watching as I move forward, envious, even as I envy the water’s smoothness, water’s calmness in a chaotic human world, nature holding fast, holding firm.

Above me, the sky reflecting, an eagle flies, wings outstretched, caressing the air, a smooth glide, as mine, unbroken, rising and falling, his cry sharp and piercing, calling out, heard only in the quiet of early morning on the lake, and perhaps calling out to me, our journeys to the head of the lake crossing, solitudinous journeys taken alone, our journeys reflected, and reflecting, too, ourselves, he and I alone here, calling out.

And the loons, too, call out unseen, their trills and warbling echoing or echoed by others unseen, their black heads rising to dive again, seen only as a ripple breaking the surface. Their calls stop my paddling, draw me out of my own silence into theirs, theirs and the eagle’s sharp cry, we now a holy trinity united, if for even a brief moment caught in nature, wild and untamed here at the head of the lake, nature united in the three of us – earth and air and water – sharing the silence, sharing our journeys, alone and silent.

At Home Now

At home now, not here where I am, city-bound, it’s raining, the cold rain of autumn leading into winter’s snow. And a rainy day at home is time spent inside, “sweater weather,” staying warm, a hot cup of coffee, or cocoa, rich and chocolaty, warming my spirits, and a good book, no Nook or Kindle on a rainy day inside, but paper, paper pages thumbed and turned, dog-eared, or chest-pressed in dozing off, the lullaby of rain falling on the roof, beating time on the windows, the comfort of a room warmed closing my eyelids and raising snores, gentle snores of dozing off, on a rainy day, a rainy day spent inside, a slower life, settling into the winter snow approaching.

2 Short Poems

(--- 1 ---)

 

Winding Down, October End

Winding down, October ends, drab,

muted, Summer’s youth long forgotten,

turning cold, warmed by the years’ passing.

(--- 2 ---)

 

Enough

Snow fell last night,

           not much, enough for the birds

          to leave their footprints, soft

                etchings leading to my door and away.

Poetry is But a Conversation

Poetry is but a conversation we share

     with ourselves, casual talk of the life we’ve forgotten,

     tucked away into the recesses of memory

     for days like today, in solitude remembering

     who we were – then – and wondering, perhaps,

     how we got to now, giving up, as we did,

     as we had to – time’s requirement –

     giving up our youth to age,

     young love and innocence, reckless daring,

     lost in growing up, growing away

     into the recesses of memory

     for days like today, in solitude remembering.

A Ripple Begins

Early mornings, before the wind
and others, sleeping late, arise,
the lake is smooth, mirrored,
glass, the calm of water sleeping,
perhaps dreaming undisturbed, and
waking slowly, warmed by morning’s light,
a ripple begins -- a fish breaking the surface feeding,
a bubble formed below rising, to burst
and break the smoothness, or the wake of a loon,
like me, alone, rising early,
beginning, today, this day
waking, warmed by morning’s light,
a ripple beginning.

Wandering Through October’s Woods

In forest gloom, wandering a path

through October’s woods,
subdued now by seasons’ changing --
summer to fall and a hint of winter’s
cold and snow approaching --
my footfalls are steady, and quiet
save for the rustle of dry leaves fallen,
stirred up, a snap of broken twig,
or a bird’s lone cry,
a distant calling, unanswered,
echoing in the bosky woods, the shadows
closing around me, taking me in,
till I stop, my thoughts, wandering and scattered,
drawn down, downward to mud-hardened earth,
halting me, to find below my step, his,
a single cloven print, broad, dug deep,
a moose’s passing here, unseen and heard
in Springtime’s wetness, preserved
and drawing me to now, this moment,
a journey taken through October’s woods,
subdued myself by seasons’ changing,
summer to fall and a hint of winter approaching.

Autumn Finally Came

Autumn finally came, right on time, slowly, gradually, unnoticed, as it does each year, sneaking up on us, the nights cool after hot days, the days cooling slowly, too, unnoticed, mornings light subdued as we rise and drive to work, our livelihood, all of us up and out, our days beginning. Now, the leaves are turning, a few at first, green to yellow or red or brown, a single leaf leading, the others following, in turn, and falling, one or two, a few, a few more, till on a Saturday afternoon, mid-month, I dig out the rake buried for the summer in the garage, the air now noticeably cool, chilly almost, a sweatshirt pulled over my head, and take myself outside, the slow process of raking leaves a relief actually, a break, outside alone, for raking leaves is a solitary job, raking alone this spot chosen, starting here, a rake dragged, pulled toward my feet, raised and pulled again slowly, no rush in raking leaves, leaves brought forward into a pile forming.

This is the season to be alone, Autumn is, alone, raking leaves, contemplating a life slowed down, this Saturday afternoon, our lives so rushed, so hectic, so full, time alone to contemplate where we are, where we’ve come from, how we arrived, traveling our memories back to childhood, to simpler times, times of leaves pressed between waxed paper, ironed flat and hung around the classroom, taped to windows, our young version of stained glass,  windows of wonder; of leaves piled high, our fathers slowly raking, pulling leaves to their own feet, or pausing, standing propped against a rake at rest, looking off, contemplating, perhaps, as I do now; of those leaves piled high, mounds of leaves calling to us to run, to jump, to launch ourselves into piles of leaves raked up, piled high, cushioning us, our voices shrill in the autumn air; of football games on a Saturday afternoon, the warmth of Autumn sunshine turning cold by game’s end, hot chocolate, apple cider poured to warm us again, returning home.

Alone, we pull the leaves toward us now to pile at our feet, red and gold and brown, or prop ourselves on rakes holding us up, staring off at life slowed down, contemplating, remembering, the leaves of memory sustaining us for the approaching winter, reminding us of where we came from, reminding us of who we are, sustaining us and keeping us alive.

October Peeks Around the Last Days of September

October peeks around the last days of September, shyly,

her breath, crisp and chilled, exhaled, cooling down the days

gone shorter, daylight squeezed between the darkness encroaching;

and autumn dons his overcoat of colors muted,

the greens of summer, brilliant against an azure sky,

now turning red and rust and brown, or golden hues,

the rustle of his coat, pulled tight around

against the cold, soft, as dry leaves scratching

the pavement, tumbling in October’s breath, crisp and cool.

This Cold Morning

The coffee warms me this cold

morning, at the lake, up early

before the boaters take over, the roar

of motors driving in the fishermen

contemplating a red and white bobber

tossed into the still water, a ripple

created, the lake’s only motion

breaking the morning calm, this cold

morning I share with them, sitting

here, dock-side, coffee-warmed, contemplating

the rising mist, veiled transparency

obscuring land’s end and the lake beyond;

and the eerie cry of a loon, echoing, calling out,

notes my intrusion and calls me back

from my own obscurity to here,

to now, to this cold morning, up early

before nature gives ways to humanity –

man’s dominion – silent, shutting us out

but through glimpses seen, like this,

up early, this cold morning shared.

A Maine Winter in the Woods of Monson

 

Lake Hebron is quiet now, winter approaching, the summer folk gone and the few hearty souls that stay year round settling in, content themselves in the quiet of the lake, firewood stacked, sweaters cleaned, foundations banked to ward off the cold of a Maine winter in the woods of Monson. Fewer trucks now rumble the hill of the camp road, Pleasant Street, now named and numbered, modern convenience in a rustic time and place, and the loons, the few lingering yet to leave, reluctant themselves, perhaps, as the summer folk lingered, delaying leaving themselves, wishing for “one more day, one more day,” the loons remaining still cry out and echo across the lake, their haunting cries unheard but by those few who stay as the temperatures dip and ice forms along the shore where the water joins the land. The fish there, down below, slow themselves, content in the winter approaching, prepare themselves now for the winter freeze, ice sealing off the lake above, the winter light below dark and black, long starless sky above them. And in the air wood smoke, acrid and sharp, rises in gray rivulets from the unsealed chimneys that remain, heat rising upward and outward to warm cold rooms, rooms dark in early morning rising, warm against the cold of an autumn night, lingering cold turned warm by crackling wood and snapping iron heating, expanding, warmth expanding to take us in, those few staying behind, winter approaching, the summer folk gone, settling in, content in the quiet of Hebron, a Maine winter in the woods of Monson.