The Old Ford in Snow

In the silvery dark
on a night besnowed hill
the usual silence
of snowfalls is filled
with the whir of an engine
riding the ditch
plaintively rising
and falling in pitch.

Watching the snow fall
like unhurried stars--
merciless, heedless
of bald-tired cars--
I unload my worries
into capable hands.
Joe will return soon
with truck, chains, and plans.

I back down the road
that I just failed to climb
to sit by the wayside
passing the time
with wandering thoughts
on the travail of snow
on road weary tires
awaiting a tow.

The old Ford in low gear
sporting locked differentials
makes short work of tall hills.
We have all the essentials:
Home, boys, and car in the drive, safely towed.
We feel the elation
of conquering the road.

Secrets I Wish Were Mine

My river is not my river--
my shoal, not my shoal.
It shares with me its unhurried waters,
thoughtful sycamores,
questing vines and courageous willows,
silent under sky, meditating
on their time under the sun.
And I, I scribble these secrets
I wish were mine
always knowing they belong to water
that will give them away to sky.

Acorns

Up the hill and down the road
around one bend and then another

boys on bikes and I on foot
as brother chases after brother

'til we reach the silent oak
that feels the sigh of mid September

and gently lets her acorns go
to wait through winter, each an ember

holding onto sparks of spring.
We collect these in our pockets

to plant in pots or string on strings,
to coax to life or give new scope

as parts of arts or crafty things.
We sit there, shaded by the branches,

idly talking in the grass
fitting acorns with berets:
tiny gentlemen trying on hats.

Nostalgia of Middle September

As if God had turned the world upside down
an ocean of gray cloud floats over our town.
Hinting at blue, an inverted horizon
makes strange fish of all the birds I lay eyes on.

This is one of those in between days
when the sun has gone sly, and is hoarding its rays.
Every breeze holds a scent I remember.
How deep, the nostalgia of middle September.

Cool air through the window, smelling of wishes...
Warm suds on my forearms, plunged deep with the dishes...
Lazily soaping and rinsing a ladle...
Lullabies sway through my mind, like a cradle.

The inhale and exhale of Autumn's first gust,
colored with aster and goldenrod dust:
a peaceful reflection of spirit that brings
the quiet affection of everyday things.

Nothing given can be stolen

I asked the Lady River why

furred in green leaf, robed in sky

she went along with tresses pinned

with glints of shells along their wend.

In lilac, bistre, peach, and wine,

celadon and cream most fine--

Why jealously adorn the stream

where sunlight glints and gold carp teem?

You do not understand, said she,

My waters hold no jealousy

for I'm a master of my trade--

polishing the shines God made.

This beauty, offered for the taking,

I give. I had no part in making.

Be my banks stone dry or swollen

nothing given can be stolen.

Of the Beetle

In belled depths of that blue blossom
petite vermilion beetle spotted black
bears the burden of the blessed pollen's
verdant promise on his dainty back.

Down straight stalks and up again

from bell to bell he makes his way

and sweetly sleeps inside a flower

at the closing of each day.

Blossoms pay him with their nurture.

By petals from the spiders hidden

he conjures flowers of the future

where by nectar he is bidden.

Of Chicory

For coffee's sake, I mean to dig the chicory

but when time comes to dig, I can't.

Too in love am I with the tenacity

of that midsummer heat defying plant.