WINTER DEER
Through the trees they came
at twilight or at dawn,
bowing their graceful heads
beneath the snowy branches.
They left their heart-prints
along the drive awhile,
crossed then into the pines.
Three doe with this spring’s young.
Every year I’ve seen them,
nine of them. The immortal
deer at the border of what
we think is ours, what has
always been theirs.
WHOSE WOODS?
after R. F.
He doesn’t tell if it was a newcomer
who didn’t understand about hunting,
or a local curmudgeon with a grudge
who posted the woods along the road.
But he made a promise to himself,
and one dark and snowy night
near the end of deer season,
he drank a few cups of tea,
saddled his horse,
and set out to make things right.
When he got to that lonely place,
he slid off the horse, and in the most
basic way he knew, he made
the lovely woods his own again.
I know I’m not the first person to have this thought.
CANDLEMAS, VERMONT
Clear out the Christmas clutter
so no one will die this year.
Count the candles and say a prayer.
We don’t bless the herds
or let lambs out in the cold.
It is not spring here.
Half the woodpile should remain;
half the potatoes, half the grain.
Your breath-cloud echoes
a shadow of smoke crossing
and recrossing the snow.
WHY OUR GODS
I think it’s the weather: the snow, the wind,
the cold. To be small targets, all winter
we wear our shoulders under our ears. Plans
made on sunny days come to naught when snow
fills the roads and paths and knocks out power
lines and we must stay and shovel and feed
the stoves. Our houses get smaller. Husbands
and cats take up more spaces. Complaining
dogs follow us from room to room. This is
why our gods are relentless, slow to forgive,
determining, unpredictable, hard.
Their will is as slippery as the ice.
They don’t approve when we, in our clumsy
boots and heavy jackets, try to dance.
MARCH SNOW
This snowstorm’s not exactly late,
In fact, they happen all the time.
This sort of thing’s what we expect
For living in a Northern clime.
Nevertheless, that doesn’t mean
It’s something we appreciate–
Wouldn’t it be more comforting
If winter had a closing date?
COMING TOWARD HOME
I want to love things all by myself,
not looking sidelong to see
if others are loving them, too:
the sky like old blue glass held in by a tracery of trees,
the great horned owl’s cynical question–
Who’s awake?
the falling cold stars of snow.
One night I snowshoed in the woods alone,
the full moon lamplight gleaming
through the lace of soft snow clouds.
Coming toward home I saw in the frame of an uncurtained window
the painting of a summer orchard
above my piano against the green wall,
my husband moving across the kitchen with his teacup.
I thought I would break for joy.
This is an old one. It was published in Calyx, in September, 2000
SPELLS
Winter Prompt #11
1.
Great spider, untangle
the threads you’ve spun.
Turn to dust the husks of bees
and flies sucked dry.
Bits of leaf and fur let fall
and in the dark a new web weave
so in the dawn’s light
we may see the shining shape
of all set free.
2.
Audmula lick us from the ice,
Skadi, hunt up the sun,
free us from this Niflheim.
Bragi, loosen my tongue.
Old man Winter, that Old Man Winter,
He don’t need nothing; he must want something.
He just keeps blowing, he keeps on snowing along.
He don’t wear sweaters, he don’t wear longjohns,
And them what wears them will soon be bygones,
He just keeps blowing, he keeps on snowing along.
You and me, we shovel and strain,
Backs all aching and wracked with pain:
Clear that walk! Chop that ice!
Vermont Life makes the winter look nice.
I get weary, and sick of freezing,
I’m tired of sniffling, and tired of sneezing,
But Old Man Winter, he just keeps blowing along.
