Snow Bound Hollow

Snow Bound Hollow

I have spent too much time detailing weather

as if it presumed my mood

and it did or dictated the need for color

living alone in a snow bound hollow.

While the canvas went blank outside

and in, apathy to life muffled

down about the throat, with only the tweets

of gold finch still dull green and titmouse.

Long intervals of nothingness punctuated

by jays and the high ordinance of cardinals.

So much is white or black or gray that brown

appears glorious as it seeps through snow.

I reconnect with slime.

The Count's Plate

The Count's plate

snow outside the window and door

looks like the white dinner plate

Sylvie Ann de la Gueronniere's father

set before me the time I spent the night:

mashed potatoes, boiled calf brain,

and milk,

I tried not to gag,

The Count was known to shoot pigeons

off of his roof

to serve as squab to guests

on retrospect, I think he liked

to see just how polite society

could be in 3^rd world

New Orleans.

Dream of my Grandmother, born in the year of the rat

Dream of my grandmother, only wisps of remembering
I look at her picture this morning with a stab of familiarity

as if just hours ago I left her on vacation in Bermuda,

or fell behind as she fast walked up 7^th Avenue on her buying trip,

or was it while I struggled to peel a peach for Grampse

she disappeared in the garden?

Her energy announced her

my sister and I her willing audience

or co-conspirators to surprise.

Every night a new story,

her back rubs cast out our nightmares.

The summers with her were hiatus

from the manic atmosphere our home.

Once she tried to charm a cornered rat

which bither hand offering food;
the only unbedazzled animal
she ever met.

rain

it is raining heavily

raining on all these fields of whipped cream

raining on the roofs which still are mantled in white

now sliding faster to a fall

raining on deer deep treads to the river

I haven't seen in a week

raining on my ½ mile long drive heavy with foot traffic,

and on my sled course

which I relinquish

to a change of scene.

sledding

sledding

Icing of snow now turning to rain, making slick my sled run

Yesterday the twenty inches of snow had diminished by one third

my high rubber boots now  tall enough to not be swamped

I tramped the hill over and over to make a passable track

and only managed two fair rides, with dogs frantic at my side

fearful their person was at risk, they nearly spoiled my joy.
Since the track was more a bob sled trail

the barking was at my ears, I nearly ran over paws,

my guardians fierce and obdurate.

Today I may leave them inside. But then my fun

might be swallowed by acres of snow and sticks of pines;
who would hear my shrieks or witness my run?
Who lick my face awake if I crashed?

Trek to the top of the road

snow pictures

Wednesday night before going to bed:

early Thursday morning:

ah, s-n-o-w

The depth of snow is beyond my 12 inch ruler

all about the house are snow pyramids

topping grill, chair and table.

I dug a path to clear the compressor, mercy,

I have power.

My 11 pound mop of a dog is over topped,

camouflaged, only he's dirty, not pristine.

It will be a trek to the chickens

let alone the mailbox.

for fun

The 10^th of February - yellow submarine

Nostalgia rains in the house, Beatles music blaring,

Paul and Ringo reunited

the heart beat of my college days

of my first sexual encounter.

Yoko dancing – very stylized motion –

big warm grin behind those big dark glasses.

We all live in a yellow submarine -

our denial machine

our ride thru dark matter that wearies our soul

our space ship survival cocoon

naivete saving us in colors everywhere

transports us thru the doughnut hole

to another dimension.

Who knows?

My yellow submarine swallows me and all I love

transports my heart to spring in winter,

to picnics on planets unimagined.

Sustains my soul.

winter pictures

the blue heron

3 little poems

impotence

In dream the fence is 12 feet not 6,

no doors or gates work

I have to climb while

chickens scatter in all directions

as neighbor dogs pant and chase.

Only I occupy a superimposed maze,

can see and hear, but cannot

reach the fray, nor

stop the killing spree,

nor save a feather.

heron

too cold to decompose or summon scavengers

the heron curls another week

I nod to corpse and tell myself again

better to let a coyote feast

or vulture come,

then try to bury

the ground too hard for shovel.

stuffed pastries

it doesn't seem linear, this transit to nearly 70,

I am as old as the friends of my greatgrandmother,

bosomy flowery perfumed stuffed pastries,

calling out for a hug,

I ran from

as if they might capture vital particles of joy

or fatten the sleekness of my limbs.

Now I understand their summoning,

merely seeking comingling

of their spirit which was no pastry,

but vigorous still

and wanting out.

mh

sighting!

Eagle at the river! I tell my son who happens to call

from the Dominican Republic; “the eagle” he says

to his wife nearby, at a beach on the island. They have seen

the eagle at the swimming hole on the river here. But today,

I wonder if the ice drew the expanse of wings, jamming at the bend.

The white shaggy head so distinct flying off down river.