Thursday, February 22, 2024

Elegy on Ice

 


 

Parked beside the frozen lake

we munch blueberry muffins

and slurp our dark roast coffee.

The plain sheet of lake regards

the sky with something like worship

but lacking that subservience.

Such broad dimensions regret

nothing, rooted in creation

that continues to self-create.

No ice fishing, no snowmobiles,

nothing but an unwritten text.

Maybe the ice isn’t thick enough

to brace the wooden bobhouses

that used to pepper the scene

on the boldest winter mornings.

I wish we could fold up the lake

and an equal expanse of sky

and bring them home to install

in our back yard. Then we’d enjoy

this expanse until it thawed

and wept into the water table

where our deepest thoughts deploy.

 

 

Saturday, September 23, 2023

New England Aster

Almost an Ode

 

Radiance of New England Aster

flatters my agrarian instincts.

Am I thinking potatoes, wheat,

cabbage? This ripe shade of blue

nourishes more than orange or green

vegetables by filling cavities

 

eroded in my aesthetic sense.

You also admire these flowers,

which brace a phalanx in the park

by the river. We never see

anyone pause to examine them.

Dogwalkers sport admirable pets

 

but focus on their cell phones,

tourist hustle toward the café,

the rare courting couple lose

themselves in each other. Trained

by peering into Monet’s landscapes,

we mingle structure and color

 

in a soup of vague affection

taught by the arts but invoked

only by fauna and flora.

The river considers itself

a life-form, and we must agree.

It coughs and sputters and slops

 

right up to our feet and smiles.

Looking upstream from the park,

we note broken trees toppled

down the steep bank near the highway.

Such entropy also nourishes

by recycling carbon-based matter

 

that composes all our thoughts.

Although autumn suggests we’re old,

it allows a glimpse of aster

to ease the tension otherwise

affixed to distant horizons—

the myth of the vanishing point.



 

Wednesday, July 26, 2023

Striata Flamma

 


 

Flames of corrugated leaves flaunt

in our friend’s aluminum planter

outside the oldest cinema

in New Hampshire. We can’t name

this plant, but it looks expensive

and arrogant, striking a pose

against which crimson flowers

slash the humid summer glare.

 

You wouldn’t want such power

unfolding in our own back yard

but like to see it downtown

abutting a parking lot crammed

with autos we couldn’t afford.

This floral critique reminds us

that almost every passing moment

pollinates the moments to come.

 

These big leaves will linger after

the first and most tentative frosts,

but must uproot and move along

before winter disgraces them.

Storms due on Thursday may punish

with hail but won’t humble them.

Moviegoers may snuff a few

cigarettes in the planter, but slobs

 

lack the aesthetic counterpoint

to effect the enabling emotion

lurking in larger cosmic views.

You pluck a butt from the soil

and grind it into the asphalt.

Our friend arrives with her dog,

who approves of us by wagging

and rolling to offer his belly.

 

While I’m busy playing with the dog

our friend murmurs a Latin name

that I hear as striata flamma

Doesn’t matter. You and she discuss

the subtle drama of gardening

while I consider rolling around

the parking lot with the dog,

baring my brazen lack of roots.