At the Sugar Shack

April brought snow.
There were maple taps
in a bucket by the register.
I gave my daughter a couple dollars
to give to the waitress, to say
thank you for the strawberry pancake.
Once she crumpled them
in her hand, she did not
want to let go. Outside, the snow
fell, but didn't accumulate.
There was another child, sitting
in the mud on the path
to the animal village.
But we sensed the nap was close,
the end of our snow day adventure.
We piled into the car.
The crocuses won't die.
This might be all gone tomorrow:
the white-capped hills,
the mist, the bizarre melodrama
of winter.

Poem 24: I want a girl

In a lyric, there's a boy and
a girl. Like you, chasing a boy
around the room with an orange
fire truck, under that painting
of Vermont. Like the song
that came on, while you were riding
in your car seat. In the rearview,
cars behind us were shadows
across your face. I want a girl,
with a mind like a diamond.
This morning, you said "Aretha,"
but it was a new singer and a long
time change gonna come. Like your mom
and the short plaid skirt. I want
a girl who knows about matches.
Who strikes anywhere. I want a girl
like a song makes your hips shake.
Like running down hills, like
not caring if you fall, like dusty
knees. I want a girl.

Poem 21: Lights

We stop the car
to show you: look
up, over the field
a tree of lights
on the stone tower
illuminating
the traprock face
of the rocky ridge.
It reminds me
of hot cocoa, late
at night, walking
down the hallway
of the hospital
with a newborn
respect for the small
hours.

Poem 17: Friendly's

I love you, uncle
I love you, cousin
I love you, red cardboard glasses
milk in a cup with a straw
a broken green crayon
and a snowman with polka dots
It's dark outside
in a booth by that window
Aunt N. started her contractions
now her four-year-old son
takes half bites out of his mini
hamburger, holding out for ice cream
I love you, cousin
I love you, uncle
I love you, lost little straw

Poem 2: Every Fourth, Last, Now

Red is every fourth letter,
and the leaves on that fiery tree
across the street. Red is M,
red is A, which you pronounce E
and say it's for your name
which begins with the sound of I.
Red was your last color, and still
you say it slowly, quietly,
without the final D.
That hat we loved was red.
That color, in finger paint,
on your cheek. Apple, strawberry.
Purple was more fun to say.
Yellow, too. But fire trucks
and roses and that little bracelet
you pushed over my fingers
and onto my wrist and smiled:
red, all red, say it with me
now.