December 31st

The red squirrel is terrorizing

the gray squirrel at the feeder;

neither knows that tomorrow . . .

this will all change.



The brown pond is refreezing

over dozing fish and frogs;

none know that tomorrow . . .

this will all change.



The Aztecs cycled through

two calendars, 360 and 365

days, which aligned to restart

once every 52 years,

and today some 40 different calendars

diverge on the date of the new year:

youths lollygagging into the year 26;

elders dragging past the year 7000.



Unlike us, the flora and fauna

non-mathematical,

will be nonplussed when tomorrow. . .

nothing changes.

Christmas: Three Fours for Twelve

Part I

-1-

One anonymous

treetop complainer hollers at

the bubbling blackbirds in pines.

-2-

Self-named chickadees

invisible in evergreens

sing of a warm Christmas day.

-3-

Spring in Winter

fills rills with sparkling

whispering water.

-4-

Still unbent by snow

green ferns sprawl uphill

on rust red pine needles.

Part II

-5-

It is here, today,

a day of peace:

blow winds, this,

to places far way.

-6-

WWI Christmas truce:

enemies dropped their arms

and used arms to embrace:

‘This is good;

let’s just go to our homes.’

-7-

It is as hard to make peace

as to clutch

a fist full of water.

-8-

Today’s news, religion without god;

this summer, god without religion;

and for some, the two bind together:

all seeking peace.

Part III

-9-

Tawny, fluffy hens

peck their breakfast,

expect no less nor more

of this day.

-10-

A house barks

when I approach and pass;

no good news for the dog inside.

-11-

Does the spring warmth

of this Christmas day

blow green dreams

into the hollows of bears?

-12-

The main road bustles with cars

speeding to Christmas;

I turn back into the wild wind.

* 

The

warm wind

has blown the sky to blue

and memories to mind:

fifteen I am sticky, walking a hot camp path,

thirty strolling on Nantucket with friends,

twenty off-season with friends on a gull-cold beach

ten a child singing the endless 12 Days of Christmas

to a patient audience:

at sixty this is my twelve

for patient readers.

Reading Omens

No neat V due south

                        but a scribble of scattered lines

     swishing across the blank grey sky,

           spots enigmatic as tea leaves.

Is autumn leaving?

Winter breathing

cold and close?

              The geese will not commit.



Then a long, silent pause;

               no passengers overhead.


              Waiting.

            Wondering.



The nothing is

punctuated loudly

by a lone pair of geese

            no hurry

                             no hurry

                                              no hurry

winter is

                  still

                                far

                                            away.

Night Fox

Narrow in flight,

the fox sails through the night.

Soundless and sleek

who knows what he seeks:

a mouse,

or a den

safe from rain and wind?

Who knows where he goes:

just here

or far there?

The fox sails through my lights

and out of sight.

Night Light

Light presses against me

narrowing

my field

of view.

I can't see

unless

with my hands

I form blinders

to either side                 of my eyes

to push away the                     light

pressing

against

me.

I need

to see the sky

starring

all the stars

born before

the time

of light.

Just in Time

Just in time

wire-legged flamingos,

flaming pink,

arrived.

Just in time

for chill September's

not-quite-frost 

to arrive,

just in time

to tip maple leaves

flaming red

but not as bright

as my plastic

aviary.

Oblivious

bat flittering through

the strobe of night lightning

intent on one moth

Three Haiku for Flying Creatures

The flowers are here!

But the tiger swallowtail

flies up to the sun.

--- \o/ ---

Robin runs in spurts

along the road: who praises

the running of birds?

--- \o/ ---

Ragged butterfly,

how can you flutter up

more hole than wing?

--- \o/ ---

Where

Head down

scuff the gravel

cool between tall trees

step out into the bright heat

of home perched alone

on the crisp hilltop.



Head up

rustle ripe timothy

growing wild, hiding home

though you stretch up tiptoe

under that same sun to see

then step through and crunch across.



Straight ahead

driving by on the highway

tar and bricks steal proof of memory . . .

I do not follow that now paved road

nor look for overgrown paths to follow

just in case

the house stares back at me.





(Written during a workshop at the boyhood home of Stanley Kunitz; given themes: place and time.)

Stag

Today I heard you crack branches

and rip through tangled leaves

as you leaped up the impossible slope

above the roadway.

Seeing is not needed for believing.

I knew it was you.

When I did see you, I was not looking.

My eyes were surveying leafy side roads

into the park as I whizzed past,

seeking the road not taken.

You can't believe everything you hear,

but you were soundless anyway.

Like an icon in a Celtic mystery

you stood in the middle of the path

hocks hidden in the mist and antlers high,

echoing branches of dead trees.

Believing is not seeing.

I know you are out there, sight unseen.

Galloway Brook

     . . . there

appearing

      the brook takes five bends . . .

                             sparkling white with captured sun

undulating brown beneath evergreens

                       twirling a trio of sky blue eddies

        mirroring green overhanging maples

               retreating as low golden shallows cut by shadows . . .

disappearing

     there . . .