Mud Season

Mud season, now, the fifth season,

 

the winter snow melting

turning dirt roads into off-road trails

of mud and muck and mire,

hard-packed and frozen earth

softening in temperatures rising,

ice crystals held together

through winter’s long darkness

letting go, snow fed, sponged earth

soaked through, wet and slick,

a season unto itself.

Silence

A strange sound, silence is,

voices gone and the noise of progress

reduced to a buzz behind and beyond the trees

to create a space to hear my own thinking,

my thoughts unheard in sound surrounding,

thoughts held in, now in silence

taking flight, set free and fleeing,

replaced by a lone bird calling unseen

and the rush of water flowing, rushing sea-ward,

a soft song, softly sung around me,

an aria filling my silent space,

resonating, echoing, a melodic orchestration,

my footsteps, steady and light,

a percussive tap keeping its rhythm

and setting my own, my life’s rhythm carrying me

beyond the noise of progress, voices gone,

beyond the trees into a space of silence,

a strange sound, silence resonating, echoing, melodic.

Remember Kindergarten

Remember Kindergarten

A poem for Air Academy High School, Class of 2013

Senior Breakfast, April 15, 2013

 

Remember kindergarten?

how scary it was? little tables
surrounded by the tiny chairs
you were herded toward, a few tears perhaps,
your friends, strangers back then, almost,
and the other kids, equally scared and eager
as you, to be grown up, in school,
on your own, sort of, a big kid now,
for a few hours, the litany
of rules and responsibilities growing long, though,
in the lengthening days of this being grown up,
and then matriculating into the first grade
and the neat little rows of desks, side by side,
one in front of the other, or grouped, a forced socialization,
and the beginning of twelve more years,
teachers directing you to where they are,
all grown up, clipping your wings even, even as they
encouraged you, diploma-toting adults forgetting themselves
perhaps, kindergarten, the tiny chairs, the litany
of rules, and their own scared eagerness
at being “big kids now,” and moving into the first grade
but a fuzzy image gleaming faintly
in memory’s fading, somehow lost in the forgetting;

But you flew anyway, as youth does,

too light not to, your sights set
beyond the playground, beyond the classroom
toward greatness, all things possible,
no limits in the cloudless sky, blue
and bright, beckoning you aloft, to stretch, untethered,
the talents you took from the toy box of kindergarten -
the athletic fields and dance, the stage
and art room, music and scholarly pursuits -
creative youth set free in kindergarten,
set free from the tiny chairs surrounding little tables,
eager faces, scared and grown up, sort of,
set free in the lengthening days of kindergarten
matriculating into first grade, twelve more years
begun, clutching yellow pencils in awkward hands
and carving your names, black letters askew,
leaving your mark, leaving yourselves imprinted
on a world eager and scared, as you,
a world waiting for you,
a world remembering your name;

And today, graduation, you’ve outgrown

the tiny chairs and little tables,
the neat little rows, side by side, or grouped,
your sights set well beyond the playground,
well beyond the classroom, but still … remember,
remember kindergarten, how scary it was,
on your own, a few tears perhaps, growing up,
and the lengthy list of rules and responsibilities,
how eager you were, that there were no limits
in the cloudless sky, bright and blue,
beckoning you even now to stretch yourselves, untethered;
always remember kindergarten,
always, remember kindergarten and fly.

End of Winter

Back home, it’s called “ice out,”

that exact moment, exact and recorded,

when the ice has melted, melted and gone

from the lake, "out," the last sheet of ice

giving way to rising temperatures,

shrinking to give up form and substance

to water, becoming lake itself, transformed,

a small crystal succumbing, contributing itself,

signaling, officially, the end of winter.