Reclamation

That which the Earth calls its own,

the Earth will reclaim, with fire

and flood, with the shaking

of the earth and our wills, and drought,

pestilence and war, and the strong winds set free;

we who earthbound walk on two legs, despite

our dominion, science, intellect, and faith, are not exempt,

reclaimed, too, for Earth’s own greater being,

for harmony and balance, for sustaining itself:

this one Earth, a gift to those who know their province,

a charge to wait upon the earth, the King’s bride,

who sustains us all, of one accord, an affinity of one spirit.

Middle Street, Portland, Me 1909 ** for my grandmother **

In 1909, when you’re nine years old, Portland

is a lifetime away when Papa loads

up his wagon for the long trip south,

a rare trip rarely taken from the farm

and she too young to go, her excitement

squashed by a firm hug and a gentle voice

saying, “no,” but amid her tears and the fears

of the slow miles and days ahead of him,

she wonders what he’ll bring her,

new yellow hair-ribbons as he promised,

or the doll she’s dreamed of forever

in the Sears and Roebuck catalog.

Unprepared

 A cold wind winds its way

down the lake, bringing snow

in its wake, a cold this soon

too cold for my comfort zone, even

as winter approaches quickly, the months

ahead of snow and cold and ice, a season

I’m not ready for, yet again. I prefer

the gradual dropping of the sun’s warmth,

barely perceptible, creeping slowly upon me,

a time to adjust and prepare, getting

ready for the change of seasons; so too,

the changes of living, time and age advancing on us.

We often fail to see this coming, adjusting

as we go along, it approaching in the aches

and pains and slowing down of our lives,

unprepared as we are for growing older.

 

Perhaps, though, it is best that way, unprepared,

delighting in ourselves, old friends,

old memories and new ways of seeing the world,

remembering who we are and drinking in

the moments, the hours, the days and weeks, fearless

as winter approaches and the months

of snow and cold and ice, the seasons

of our own lives changing.

The World is Flat

 The world is flat, I declared,

unrolling a long-rolled map

out onto a table to find direction,

securing its corners with books

and such, to keep it from rolling

back up into itself and falling, 

perhaps, off the edge of its world.