An Eagle Perched

An eagle perched takes flight,

brushing back the earth with great wings

carrying himself skyward until he disappears

into the vastness that is the heavens;

so, too, should our own lives be carried

skyward on great wings into the vastness

that is ourselves.

From Here to There

Driving today, I thought of my ancestors,

those who lived long before me and my new car

making good time from here to there, some

20 miles, 30 minutes on a good day on country roads.

A lot depends on that five-way corner where the roads

from one town, a village, and the other side

of the bridge from where I’m headed all converge,

three roads crossing and I’m stuck in the lane

to go left; if the morning traffic is heavy,

I wait … and wait … and rely on the quick

pickup of my car to sneak between the next cars coming,

and continuing on to where I’m going, there, safely,

not too delayed, but sated with hot coffee from home

and good music on the radio. Those fore-fathers,

in early auto days, drove these same back roads

in their Model Ts and As rolling off the assembly line

and onto the open road, at a lumbering top speed

of 35 mph, but not here on those rutted rocky roads of then,

spewing dust and dirt and stone, not a steady 35, for sure,

slowed by hills and weather, bone rattling roads

built more for ox and cart, heavy horses hauling.

So let’s lower their speed, one more safely maintained

for ease of driving, say 10, but perhaps that’s pushing it,

but easier for figuring. So, my 30 minutes to the movies,

for those early lovers, took, well a lot longer,

a much less romantic drive, if they arrived

at all, broken down on some dark stretch of Abbot,

awaiting help, though, perhaps, hoping for none in this time

alone together.  But time and life and cars improve,

creeping towards my new car, a technological wonder,

computer controlled safety features, best mileage I’ve ever had,

a smooth ride and driving thrills, cornering and accelerating

on better roads, more frequent trips, more reasons to go

from here, and faster getting to there; the travel time

is time spent alone in thought, hot coffee and good

music, waiting, impatient, or time together with your love, “our song”

played over and over on the CD, streamed from a phone,

holding hands across the console, one hand safely on the wheel,

bucket seats keeping us separated, but time together going from here

to there and home again in haste, free from the worry

of dark stretches of Abbot, street-light lit now, safer, but

fighting a constant flow of cars and trucks and campers,

trailers, the big rigs loaded down, freight and logs rumbling

past, going north and south, faster, one after the other

rushing there to here and back again, like life rushing by.

Senior Prom

(For 2020 Seniors whose Senior Prom was cancelled)

Crepe paper streamers woven into a canopy of blue and white

stretch from railing to railing in an ancient gymnasium,

its floor sunken deep, a coliseum of old victories

pitting man against man in a contest of wills,

to score, to win, to rise up victorious over our enemies,

enemies only by virtue of school color and mascot, Shipbuilders

vs. Dragons, Blue and White against Orange and Black.

But this night, under a crepe paper sky, we dance

and celebrate the victories of our own young lives,

our own contest of wills, to rise up victorious over ourselves,

over those forces of childhood that propel us into adulthood.

So we danced, just one couple among the many in this ritual 

of formality and farewell, farewell to youth, farewell to ourselves,

farewell to each other; and dancing close we held on in a desperate

embrace to capture this time, make it last, forever,

the space between us filled with idle talk and chatter,

or an awkward silence meant only to slow down time,

anything to fill that gap between us that separates, divides,

moves us apart after the last dance ends, as you go your way

and me, mine, out into a world we may not be ready for,

not yet ready to face, alone. But for now, this night we dance

around and around that ancient gym, victorious, two people

clinging to each other, afraid and clinging to a moment we share.

Today, years later, those memories once forgotten in the in-between

of youth and age return, detail-less memories of blue and white streamers

strung across a gymnasium and of the girl I danced close to, held close,

desperate to stay young and to keep the moment alive,

a moment of youth remembered on an ancient floor of old victories.

Opening up the Camp

The distant sounds of electric drills

and screw drivers, chains saws,

circular saws, and a slamming door

reverberate around the lake, and the steady

pounding of nails, an occasional “damn”

heard over a nail bent or a thumb smashed

in an errant swing of a hammer;

the faint smell, too, of wood smoke rises

from burning brush and fallen limbs, cleared,

wood stoves stoked after months of dormancy,

all letting us know, each of us, that summer

is nearer, much nearer than the early

melting of snow and the ice groaning

dark, the hush of brooks and streams rushing

with the seasons’ changing. The ducks

and loon and beaver are now returning,

and the seasonal folks, too, who, like me,

are opening up the camp

and readying ourselves for summer. 

In April's Thaw

In April’s thaw, the ice pushes itself away

after too much close contact all winter

with the land, that thin line called shore,

out of its element, grumbling in late fall’s

cold to settle itself for the season, locked in

solid by a frozen bulwark, closing it off;

and grumbling again now in waking,

it pushes away, is thrown back, windblown, shattering

against the land thawing, too, tossed about

until the great sheets of ice reduce themselves

to fluidity and the gap between ice and shore

expands, extends, opens again to earth and wind

and water, returning, as we need to, to ourselves.