That first snow always catches me off guard

That first snow always catches me off guard,

despite the watches and warnings and predictions

of 1 to 3 to 4 to 6 inches of snow coming in;

I’m just not ready for it, not yet, not now,

not ready for the snow and cold of winter arriving.

Waking up to it, I groan, but the shoveling

must be done, the snow moved off the walk

and away from the doorways and cars, got to get out;

besides, no one else is going to do it, my appointed job,

me having the better back for lifting and tossing,

though I’d much rather not, too tired, or busy, or old, perhaps.

But once outside, dressed warm against the elements,

before my shovel even hits the ground, lifts that first scoop,

the world turns quiet around me with the silent fall of snow,

and if I listen closely, I can hear soft whispers,

snow crystals, barely heard, dancing on the breeze.

I am easily distracted by the glitter of snowflakes

glistening in the first light of the sun’s new rising,

and by the soft outlines on my snow-covered yard,

its imperfections perfectly hidden, smoothed over;

propped against my shovel, admiring this, I am reminded,

that first snow always catches me off guard.

An Old Friend Returns

On a dark night, late in the fall,

starlit Autumn waning now into winter,

I wandered to the water’s edge and the expanse

of stars reflected there, not that I could

name any of them or the constellations they form,

not even the Dippers, Big and Small, the first

we are taught to recognize, but I never learned

them, too busy in youth looking up in wonder,

rapt in the sheer number and grandeur dwarfing me.

Even now, in the autumn of my own life, I feel small

looking up, still in wonder, rapt and searching,

‘till I find that one constellation I know well,

gone those summer months to the southern hemisphere,

returning now, Orion returning, looming large this night,

his three-starred belt and hunter’s bow released,

his raised arm reaching up in victory, a conqueror returning,

this long-time friend, old friend reminding me,

like a Celtic Knot, that the end of the journey

is coming home, as he is now, home to guide me

through the coming winter of ice and snow and cold,

beginning again our long journeys, away and homeward,

a threshold crossed, ending in return.

Science

Never really liked science, couldn’t do well in it;

I guess I never really cared about the why of things,

what made them happen, what forces at work created

whatever it was that science was trying to prove.

Like seeds, putting the bean in a glass, sandwiched

between the glass and some soil, watering it,

watching a root sprout out and grow down into the soil,

little feathery tendrils trailing and a stem

rising upward to escape perhaps its own confinement,

life there tightly held, waiting to grow, like all of us.

Still can’t explain the seed, can’t remember things

like osmosis, mitosis, photosynthesis, those cells dividing

and merging into whatever it is they are supposed to become.

I’d watch my seed every day on the window ledge next to my desk,

marvel at it, measure its growth rapidly struggling

through the soil, pushing it aside, a curved route down

and a curved route up, - did it know where it was going? -

no straight lines in nature’s quest to survive, mine either. 

After the test I barely passed, we let it die on the window

ledge, too much light, too little water, the experiment over,

and we never talked about its passing, or what happens next;

where do dead plants go? Is there a heaven or hell for them?

I do remember the D that I got in chemistry and the rash

of excuses I made to explain it, the teacher, the class,

material too complicated for my high school brain,

and now at 64 I still don’t know science, still don’t care,

make no excuses, but my garden grows in the summer and dies

in autumn, to grow again in spring; the rains fall,

the sun shines, and the roots go down, the stems go up,

unconfined, pushing through the soil, nature surviving.

And us? The science of us, the why and the forces at work?

We all must die, like my garden, my little plant,

too much light, too little water, the experiment over,

and what comes next, death, is just a mystery to us,

a big unknown, all the theories and suppositions proclaimed

that science can’t prove, can’t explain, heaven

or hell or ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Thanatopsis,

and the poet’s command to live, “that when thy summons comes ...

sustained and soothed ... approach they grave

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams¹.”

¹ – Thanatopsis – William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

My Father's Hands

My father’s hands bore the marks of his vocation,

cracked and creased, dark from years of grease and oil,

hard hands and a soft touch that worked the engines

and machines of other men’s livelihood, uncomplaining

through the late hours and early mornings, time

away from family, away from home, away from us;

and his soul, too, a gentle soul, bore these same marks,

uncomplaining, hard work and family, respect and honesty, 

temperance and fidelity and kindness, a patient man,

always faithful, full of faith, full of love.