Poem 39: Fall Sunset

Whether there is wisdom
in noticing, while raking damp,
curled leaves in the back yard,
by the broken fence and under
a dead bough still hanging
from the neighbor's tree,
that even a sunset that cuts
the day short at 4 p.m.
can make the horizon blush,
I don't know. Gray is softened,
our bungalow looks warm,
and our daughter is playing
on the stairs. Nine years ago,
there was fog on the day
of a November full moon
and it lifted. We sprung
into this.

Poem 38: Fragment of Other People

I find myself looking into the back yard,
at the plastic wagon with the leaves,
and thinking this is my adventure now,
in the house, around the block,
little stanzas of ordinary, and me
trying to sift through them for glints.
I'm happier that you are here.
There is no less discovery in a smile,
but still, the rain, the peeling paint,
the dog that needs to be walked --
next to our photos, our windows,
our escapes...

Poem 37: Rail Trail Over the Connecticut River

I was comforted, watching the leaves
from the railroad bridge, while they
bobbed and drifted in the wind, flocking
above the river, mirrored in the water.
Eventually, they would splash down
at the same spot as their shadow.

All day, I'd been singing "Mona Lisas
and Mad Hatters" in my head,
or out loud, thinking of my own brushes
with bohemia. I can't decide
about Bryant Park, or standing
on a stoop in Park Slope
in a Greek fisherman's cap.
Heck, I can't decide about the ghostly
photograph of the water tower at night
at the university in Orlando.

My daughter held a branch with leaves
over her head. Her flowers, she said.
I tried to explain to her what
a confluence was, but the sidewinding
ripples didn't seem to matter to her,
nor the kaleidoscope of leaves.
She wanted to walk the dog by herself
down the bridge, and left me
by the first girter, contemplating a year
stamped in rust.

Poem 36: Oh, the Sun

I remember standing in a window-lined hallway in Bartlett Hall. Maybe even leaning my head in against the cool glass, staring out across the parking lots and athletic fields at the light cast from the falling sun. Oh, the sun. Nothing made me feel like a Floridian so much as being in Massachusetts at four o'clock in November. The gold orb we took for granted would set so early, before the workday was done, so you were always going home in darkness. Mine wasn't the only shadow cast in that hallway, I wasn't the only one leaning like a flower. I remember that clearly now.

Poem 35: Coffee

My days were filled with coffee;
when my daughter was born, I bought
a thermos. The other day, she asked
if G-G was having fun with all the other
people who have died. We were driving
on Wisdom Way, by the fairgrounds
and the transfer station. Downstairs,
there is a pile of tools. I have a vague
idea where any particular wrench
or replacement stem valve I bought
18 months ago might be. There should
be notes, telling us where all the pipes
lead, which lights the circuit breakers
turn off. A limb dropped from the tree
next door, and fell on our fence.
Today, I sawed it into pieces
and dragged them to the wood pile.
The decaf I'm drinking now comes
from a mug with a life preserver
on it, it reads, "first mate."

Poem 34: Airplane Spied in the Night Sky

Compost crock pot in hand, I turn
to the house, look up over the garage
and see lights blinking, passing
through the constellations of stars above.
Up there, people are changing locations,
moving through time zones, looking
out their window and maybe seeing
the glint of snow on the hilltops,
the dark flat creep of rivers.
Maybe they have briefcases, laptops,
cell phones. Maybe they rest or order
a drink. I wonder about hotel bars,
about how once, at such a bar
in Washington D.C., a boss offered
me a drink, described me to his friend
as "one of his expenses." Or another,
on Beacon Hill, where I bought a Manhattan
for a Senator who told me about
counting votes and working the floor
for gay marriage. Maybe they turn away
from the window. Maybe there's nothing
out here to see. I'm headed back
to the kitchen, a dish towel
over my shoulder.

Poem 33: Cider Day

Crispins are mutsus, says the poster.
The tractor pulls us up the hill
to a view of the orchard, with pointed
ladders sticking up from the rows
of trees below. The bees have a great union
says the man who owns the orchard.
The rain came right after the Macs
bloomed. Other varieties fared better.
Some of the Jamaicans in the crew
below us, picking leftover apples
in the Pick-Your-Own block
have been picking here for 34 years.
It snowed here last weekend
more than two feet, but it was light.
Talk in the wagon is of Somerville,
Powderhouse Square, a cafe where
a husband proposed to his now-wife.
Then of cider, gallons fermenting,
bottles in the cellar, they accumulate.
We pick stray apples off of old trees
I am called upon to reach for the higher
ones. My daughter poses with an apple.
Later, at another orchard, we watch
mash being loaded into a brand new press,
juice squeezed out the slits on the sides.
At home, I pitch a 75-cent packet of yeast
into my carboy, hoping for a quicker start.

Poem 32: Imagine Play

This town looks dingy after a snow
the tennis court nets are still up
the gate is locked, but it is the playground
we're worried about
in the second floor of a pink house
talking about a wine dinner
pour me another proseco
imagine play, I keep thinking
neon words in a night picture
or maybe chalk on a chalk board
you can see the tower in the background
and the rusty fence

Poem 31: Candles Don't

Candles don't brighten the room
we keep burning things
I don't mean to be obtuse
but there are large chunks
of a tree lying on our fence
our picnic table our snowy
back yard -- this all started
in a shoe store when the lights
went out -- it kept snowing
and snowing and the leaves
in the trees were still green
I haven't raked I said, I haven't
All over town the snow stuck
to everything the clock stuck
at 1:10 in the morning
the morning stuck to the shovel
in clumps -- thank goodness
for oil lamps for wood stoves
for waking up at 63 degrees
and stoking it for all the times
we stoke it for the stars
no street lights for envying
the people on the next street
over where we can see lights
in the windows for milk
on the back porch covered
in snow better than the refrigerator
better than October better
than going to bed in the early dark