A clear morning, cold and dropping fast

A clear morning, cold and dropping fast
to the single digits, but the sun is shining
and from my place at the patio door, 
and nursing a cup of coffee, it appears
much warmer, blue sky and sparkling snow. 
Life goes on up here on a day like today: 
the little birds gorge themselves at my feeders, 
sharing space and seed among the chickadees 
and nuthatch, and juncos scurrying below.
A downy joins them and they flit away,
returning when she leaves, a constant flow
of birds arriving at my feeder and departing, 
each making room and waiting its turn. 
The larger blue jays arrive to spill seeds below 
to the juncos’ delight, and a greedy red squirrel dad shes 
to join them, sits there stuffing food into his mouth, 
unfazed, as I am, by their going and coming back.
Yes, life goes on these winter days at the lake;
even my own tracks in the light snow delight me, 
shoveled paths from my morning chores and walking the dogs,
eager to be out, romping in the fresh snow,
leading me here to warm myself in the sun,
coffee warmed, too, reminding me why I live here,
living my life among nature, inconvenienced,
perhaps, these winter days, deceived by the cold
and the snow and the ice, and a blue sky,
but I am alive here, an outsider, observing their world,
allowed to share it through this glass that separates us,
me on one side and them, unaware, on the other.

My Father’s Demons

My father was seventeen, a high school junior,
perhaps thinking of the summer ahead, his 18th
birthday and the Buick he was going to buy and fix
up for himself, a sweet car; instead he answered 
the country’s call to arms, leaving school and joining 
the Navy, finding himself in the Pacific aboard 
the Terror, a mine layer, headed for Japan,
where 11 months later a Kamikaze Zero dropped 
from the sky; he was one of the lucky ones, 
they said, among the 123 wounded, the 48 dead 
or missing, carrying the scars and shrapnel 
to his grave many years later, in old age.
Mustered out after the war, he returned to school, 
graduating with boys whose only action was the back seat
of their fathers’ cars, and married my mother, 
settling down at the end of WWII. He never talked
about it, though we’d seen his ribbons and uniform
and I’d memorized his Blue Jackets Manual, knew
my semaphore and general quarters procedures, 
even dreamed of a Naval career in junior high,
a dream abandoned during my war, Vietnam, the protests
and the battles brought into our living room, 
the anger and hatred, suffering and death and destruction,
seeing there on the TV what my father had seen at sea.
He said nothing still, but busied himself with work
and home, providing for us, or buried in his Bible, 
long hours alone, till nearing his own death
he confided what he remembered most from those years,
the burials at sea, shipmate after shipmate, weighted down
and committed to watery graves, witnessed by the lucky ones
who carried, as my father did, those images, those scars,
constant reminders weighing him down those 63 years, 
those unshared images carried alone and silent 
till he faced his own death at the hands of age and time, 
freed only then from his demons, as are all 
who bear witness to battle, freed on their judgement day, 
penance paid, pardoned for what they had done, 
perhaps, in the name of freedom, loyalty, and country.

Spirits

The spirits here haunt my home,

like birds flying in the winter’s darkness,

even in the bitter cold and wind

fiercely raging that would drive us inside,

except we have work to do, things that take us

out into the cold, out into the darkness,

disturbing them, disturbing us. These spirits,

flushed out, rise up and take flight,

the flutter of their wings beating barely

perceptible as they fight our presence, seeking

escape and the solace found in the solitude

of darkness, a darkness we fear as much

as the solitude it bears; yet maybe

we too seek that same solace, venturing out

under the cover of darkness hiding us,

searching for something, perhaps for ourselves,

lost in our fears, haunted and afraid.

Goddard's Pond

The NHL hasn’t called me up,

nor am I Olympic bound,

so I take myself to Goddard’s Pond

on a Friday night, lacing up my skates

tight and stashing my boots safely

in the warming hut, safely stashed

among the other kids’ boots and shoes.

My ankles wobble, weak on these thin blades,

hand-me-down skates too small now

for my brother and pinching my toes, too,

wrapped in two pairs of woolen socks

for warmth, and to fill the space

my mother says I’ll grow into.

I pause briefly on the ice, testing

myself, unsteady but keeping my balance

to push off, gliding slowly, but lacking confidence,

too cautious, remembering, push

and glide and push again, glide, rhythmically

moving forward, crossing my skates, barely, 

on the corners as I’d seen the other kids do.

Fighting it still, I keep my arms from flailing,

keep my body relaxed, not standing bolt upright

and thrown backwards in my momentum,

preventing a spill and sprawling across the ice,

embarrassing myself among the others more elegant.

I was trying to look like I knew what I was doing,

experienced, smooth, and cool on my single blades,

hiding my fear and nervousness, my awkwardness.

Then that girl from History class, across the room,

skates by and smiles, pirouettes, and returns to join me,

and we skate slowly around and around Goddard’s,

sharing the ice and History class and each other.

Joining hands we skate now together into that night,

my confidence found in her hand held tightly in mine.

There were no double axels, spins or spirals,

no jumps at all, nor chasing a puck down

for a winning goal, any goal at all,

just circling the ice, holding hands and feeling

the warmth of another on a cold night,

a memory to recall on a cold night

in this new year, many new years since.