Wind Break

From child memory

I recognize

                   you standing distant at the edge

of the abandoned field

          tall

         lank

      parched

       ragged

one

     of many

scarecrows waging stillness

against the winds of winter

        once

     long ago

      planted

       or left

in solitude to stand

cold roots clamped to lichened walls

come spring

a few sparse sprigs of youth

may scarf your branches and

lend you the warmth of middle age.

October

The flame of swamp maples

fallen

sizzles cold black

in the still water;

yellow embers cool

on the frost-tipped earth;

yet

high

on

one

lone

tree

a candle of leaves

flickers bright

fanned by the breath

of the autumn sun.