God Watches Over the North Country

Up in the north country, where I live,

God takes His job seriously, looking out

over His creation, keeping them safe

through cold winters’ snow-cover and summers’

humidity, hot and wet and bug-bitten,

the seasons’ changing sandwiched in-between,

autumns’ Indian Summers’ late playfulness taunting

and springtimes’ rain and drizzle, offering hope;

and all He asks in return is a steeple

pointing heavenward atop a clapboard church,

a modest structure, simply built,

the faithful, dwindling now, still faithful,

their voices raised, a hymn of praise to Him,

“The Old Rugged Cross,” perhaps, or

“Bless Be the Tie that Binds,”

and a silent prayer of thanks, remembering Him,

Him Who keeps us safe, Him Who gives us life,

life here in the north country, where I live.

Holding Back Nature

The buck-saw slices through the small saplings,
still green and spindly thin,

the rhythmic rasping back and forth a soft whisper

creating a small pile of shaved wood,

saw dust, gold spilled in my sawing,

moist and pungent shavings, and the sapling falls,

no cry of “timber” or crash of thrashing leaves

but a gentle sway and swoosh of green

guided down to lie on the earth I clear,

holding back nature, keeping clear the land around my house,

a home we share, nature and I, an understanding,

living together, held back, one by the other.

It's Pretty Quiet on the Lake

It’s pretty quiet on the lake now

before the summer folk arrive in a week or two

with their speed boats’ roar, and skis,

or the slow rumble of labored motors

pushing pontoons around the water’s edge,

the voices of summer revelers echoing unseen,

un-natural sounds from distant camps;

but for now, this early evening, I’m content

with the paddling of my canoe, a soft caress,

the loon’s lone cry calling shrill and mournful,

and the tree frogs, summer peepers, rhythmically

disturbing the silence of the lake.

Spring Rain

“We need the rain,” we tell ourselves

even as we complain under our breaths

about the inconvenience this shower brings,

the mess of mud tracked in, and the damp,

dashing door to door, the rain soaking us,

our clothes sticking to wet skin, cold and harsh

on arms and legs bared to the sun’s warmth,

the mustiness of spring rain rising, sharp

and earthy; “yet too soon,” we think, for umbrellas

and slickers awaiting summer storms, more predictable,

for we are caught unaware, again,

unaware this spring season of rain,

lured out by climbing temps and sunshine

to be reminded “We need the rain,”

need the rain to remind us who we are,

subject to the seasons of nature changing,

changing in her own time, changing in her own way.