Before the Storm

An early spring night, dark and clear and rich,

on the border of winter’s parting,

moonless, and the stars stand out,

hushed and silent, in this field of darkness, this stretch

of infinity’s universe above us, moving ever onward,

this night before the big storm,

the Nor’easter predicting snow, a foot

or more, and the strong gales of a winter storm,

but the night sky, clear and dark and rich, says no,

too calm, too clear, winter’s storms behind us,

so we nestle ourselves into our beds, content,

safely assured of spring’s return,

till rising, buffeted, the snow blown hard

against our windows shaking, and inches,

falling still, fallen and blown, building up,  

reminding us, again, of nature’s schedule,

nature’s time, her time unscheduled, unplanned,

not marked on a calendar’s day defined and celebrated,

nor predicted by a groundhog waking, scared and rushing back,

or even a night’s sky deceiving us, clear and dark

and rich, hushed and silent in infinity’s universe;

spring arrives as it does, in its own time,

winter leaving, when it’s done, leaving us

made small once more by her schedule, her time,

her power, free of man’s concerns and wishes,

man’s desires for what he cannot control, cannot have,

forced to remember his smallness, forced

to remember his place in infinity’s universe.

Summer Soundtrack

Our granddaughters come every summer

to the lake where we live now,

bringing with them a summer soundtrack long since gone

that we took with us when we left, years ago, growing up,

and lost somewhere along the way in leaving --

the youthful screams of water play rise in the still air,

swimming and diving, a water fight, the splash of water

sprayed, cold, cannon-balled, on summer days, hot and humid,

and chasing frogs grown lazy along the shore,

too sluggish, like us, to move quickly, but fast enough

to elicit little girl squeals raised in jumping free,

or slick and slimy, held still in hands clutched tight

around his middle, this bullfrog caught,

and the sploosh of frog set free again, escape secured,

a quick kick into the reeds along the shallows;

the echo of voices loudly calling out to shore

rings across the water, now, above the plop of oars,

the erratic zig-zagging to the other shore or the distant

island and away; even the sound of silent sun worship

is loud, stretched out and oil sated, a book propped up

or a letter started, to go unfinished, long-hand writing

penciled on an old pad, yellowed and riffling in the breeze,

the buzz of horse flies hovering ‘round,

annoying, fanned away or the slap of skin on skin

in missing, the quick dashing giggle in the rising

thunder rumbling back to the safety of camp,

this summer home where we live --

the soundtrack of granddaughters spending the summer here

returning to the lake our own youth, remembered,

lost somewhere along the way in leaving.

Nimbus

The moon wore a halo last night, a brilliant nimbus

circling her, an icebow, some scientific phenomenon

explained by ice crystals and cirrostratus clouds

“high in the upper troposphere” where weather

manifests itself from six miles away,

weather lore’s empirical forecasting

of rain to come, spring’s rain to wash away the snow,

or perhaps ‘tis Cerridwen’s luminous atmosphere

about her head, this lunar deity

of Celtic yore drawing my attention to the dark

sky above me, a map of stars circling the earth,

and this haloed moon, bright, circled itself

in light reflected, refracted, deified

by ancient people looking up, as I am now,

watching for her, for spring rain to wash away

my winter, seeking her wisdom and inspiration,

this keeper of the cauldron of knowledge,

longing to taste her potion’s first three drops,

to know myself, intuitive, know my place here,

small and looking up, afraid, a haloed moon,

a brilliant nimbus circling, Cerridwen’s luminous atmosphere,

seeking the courage and strength of a clear sky

and a circled moon, an icebow, protected in my own wilderness,

safely cradled, safely carried through my fears.

Watching the Trees from the Safety of my Bedroom Window

A late winter wind blows in, announcing itself,

the kind that drives away the remains of winter

hanging on, bringing with it spring’s warmth to follow,

and the tree tops sway and bend, brushing the sky clear,

clear and blue, and no dance choreographed, bowing,

boughs and branches bare and aflutter, their laughter

is playful in the clatter of branch against branch,

a ticklish squeal, for they are unafraid

of March’s lion roaring, spring’s violent beginning

coming in, these trees bending and snapping back

in a feigned fearfulness, this playfulness

let loose, and, holding fast, asserting themselves,

taming the season’s approach, winter into spring.

Piano Lessons

At eight, each of us, in turn,

began taking piano lessons, weekly visits

to Mrs. Gould, to sit at her grand piano,

lacquered black, the bench raised high

for our young bodies, nervous and scared,

and fingers arched, we played our scales

and lessons, grandly played, simple songs

progressing, progressively harder, mistake-ridden,

a melee of wronged notes, stumbling, bumbling

under uncertain fingers reaching, stretching,

so at eight, my turn, I gave up my dancing shoes,

another requirement of childhood, for the ivory keys

of Mrs. Gould’s piano, grand and lacquered black,

weekly visits and daily practice

at the living room spinet, my mother’s piano,

blonde and old, a cracked veneer, and weakly tuned,

my fingers arched, obediently playing my scales,

quarter notes up and down, one-handed, two-handed,

faster and faster, trying to coordinate

my stubby fingers on the piano keys, touching them,

tentative, playing over and over a melody less melodic,

arrhythmic, stopping and starting, “again,”

her voice echoing in my head, “again,”

bringing notes and tones together to match the music

spread out before me, the beginners book, daily working it,

working to master what my mother wanted for us,

but in time, the tempos speeded up, as I rushed through

each piece, each exercise, the mistakes uncorrected,

left unfixed, just to get done, get finished, finish

my two years of lessons, and give it up,

my obligation fulfilled, all my mother required,

that we had played, had tried, no prodigy among us,

no dancers or concert pianists, just kids

subject to the times, our parents’ dreams and wishes,

their desires for us, a refinement readying us

for today, refined adults because we had played,

had done what we had to do, what was expected,

each of us, in turn, at eight.