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.