Poem for mid-December

sunrise*from my south tamworth study window **december twelfth, seven seventeen, ***ante meridian

the cold brook's breath has whitened only evergreen branches on its banks as it spills and chills down to bearcamp valley below lucy larcom's big and little mountains a long curling apron string hanging down her side where she and john greenleaf whittier once clambered in amber autumn

the ninety-million-mile-away sun, whose rays left eight minutes ago, has just re-awakened lucy who reaches down to turn on my electric typewriter so that i can report to you her combing long hair with time's minute tines into a single white cloud which caresses her left shoulder

I wish her brook's breath would not only whiten those evergreen branches but me, an eighty-year-old who in a few years will have clambered up big larcom following her white apron string to become another strand in her clouded hair leaving you to hold this poem in your hand to record tomorrow's ante meridian sunrise

brian scott kelley south tamworth