Monday, April 6, 2015


a consequence of the season
written with a fountain pen
sitting exhausted in the sun and 
enjoying the pleasures of
melting snow:

in the sound of wind and
the yelling of crows
yelling three or four times                                             
of their comings and goings 
and vultures soaring 
just above tree-tops
who silently join the chorus
and who remembers writing
with a fountain pen and
from where did the 
words flow from
of wringer washer
and bringing in
the first laundry 
of the season of
dry and warm 
not frozen
in order
not rushed
shirts flat over trousers 
and socks now in pairs  
and to the stories 
in mends and in darns
with paint punctuation
and who remembers
making fires to stay warm
standing there drying
your hair by the stove
then in cast-iron
cooking a meal
while thanking the trees
in their native tongue
the snow melting quickly
going up with the wind
the dripping reminders
of maple syrup and
gutters to mend and
sculpting the run-off 
planes in the lane
and sculpting 
fluid dynamics towards 
the laminar flow
of a boat in the water
sometime again 

as the treetops begin 
 to collide in a clatter 
tracing  patterns of wind
 dry leaves tumble
from surface to air
in melt-time
with the yelling of crows
on in-blowing grey and
on and off rain
to walk in the forest
in a blue and white sky
the beech leaves still clinging
translucent from golden
wind chimes in a chorus 
as trees begin creaking

where have all the 
wild turkeys come from
long hard winter
if you've noticed
some thing's wrong
long time gone
reduced in the edit
with mouse on the sketch-book
to digitally dull
with rings in our noses
protected from elements
ignoring the singing 
of our mother

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