Friday, January 27, 2012
Voyage of the Tractor
The farmer tills his field,
waves breaking in his wake,
a linear but rubbled trail bending
to the horizon, a deep tide
churning the roots to topsoil.
This morning below zero,
dew marks each wave
with frost at its peak,
so the land resembles a mad
brown sea with whitecaps.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Its occupants once sat
sheltered under an apple tree,
an occasional wind rushing in
to slam its splintering door.
Nobody sits there anymore.
When it rains the walls weep.
Crescent of moon, shadow of starlight.
The sun has silvered its boards.
Rose remembers the blossoms
each spring, those firm round apples.
Lord, how she misses that tree
but never the outhouse.
Friday, January 13, 2012
H-E Double Hockey Sticks
Our steel blades bit into the plywood
floor, hatching and crosshatching
the grain so it resembled a glacial scar.
The metal door creaked as the cold
stepped in. Though nobody looked up
someone shouted, Shut the effing door!
and it slammed. More times than could be
counted it slammed. Like a wrecking ball
it shook the tin shack as it slammed.
The extremities freeze first, fingers
and toes, the tip of the nose,
and if we’d stayed in, out of the wind,
left our hockey sticks leaning against
the wall, that puck like buried coal
wouldn’t have warmed us at all.
Friday, January 6, 2012
The pond will not decide
if it’s solid or liquid.
Some mornings a palette
of ice stipples the sunrise.
Some evenings the wind
stirs the surface
It’s a composition in flux,
counterpointed by three ducks
with their rumps
sticking out of the water.