Poem for April 1: Mud Season

Mud Season The wide land remains, Released and rearranged, Embraced, glazed by mud Eternal and brown as photographs In village archives of booted children Clutching metal pails before a one-room school, Bare sepia hills showing the long walk home.

We, too, are rearranged, Unable to escape water’s deep courses, This annual reckoning. While trails are closed, we improvise, Seek our footing on the road’s verge. Astonished by Earth’s abundance, We work our way toward spring.

Jean Knox Sandwich and Dorchester MA

Poem for March 15

Wonalancet Night Hear the air; restless sighs Through Conifer and Beech Cold branches wavering, Each vying for reach Shadows gather and mingle In fragmented plight Snow is the canvas On a Wonalancet night

Smell the air, freshly mowed In the yard of headstones Where the stars shine like diamonds And the dead rest their bones When the hatch is arisin' And the trout start to bite It's the right place to be On a Wonalancet night

Feel the air on your face Storm clouds blowing in Birds fleeing in warning Lightning crackles again Skies clear, the Moon smiles In flickering light Worth getting wet On a Wonalancet night

See the air, moving leaves As they dangle and dance Hanging on while they can But there's soil to enhance White face stares like an idol As if judging a fight There's a bit of the whimsical On a Wonalancet night.

Anonymous Tamworth

Poem for March 1

On Getting to Work on a Book When I leave work have packed the car and left the parking lot by the time I am at the light at the four corners, I am finally in my own head, and so clear-headed: I can now get home and work on that book, one of several, at last, and then I drive the loopy lumpy road beside the river, surrounded by trees and leaves and needles and whispers and ghosts and water and radio reports and my meandering mind thinks of what there is to do that must be done this very day so that by the time I crest the hill and start down toward my driveway I have shifted gears from the inside of my head back to the outside; flicked through all the things that I have agreed to do for someone implicitly or in fact, and the dog greets me as if I were his good and true person the one he has waited for and possibly for whom he has some plans but first there’s wood to haul and laundry in the washer, it is raining of course so something must be done which is above all not sitting down to knock out any book.

Peggy Johnson Wonalancet

Oct. 2012

Poem for February 1

February 2: Groundhog Day/Celtic Festival of Imbolc The winter tips toward light and warmth today. Mink knows - he crossed the road to reach the brook; the crows flap closer, and have more to say.

Indoors, we empty shelves, sweep dusty nooks, bag up old clothes, consider, sort and clear, thin out for spring the crowded rows of books.

A neighbor calls - coyotes downed a deer; His children saw, his little daughter cried. Dark blood on snow marks too this day of year.

From Solstice cold we’ve watched the sunlight glide and grow to Imbolc - now the quarter’s crossed; we’re bound for Equinox on rising tide -

although, in part, it’s been a winter lost: ice, rain, strange winds, the snow that didn’t stay - our balance shaken as our weather’s tossed.

An owl calls out at noon. Two sparrows play - they court and chase, swoop down into the road. The year tips, and we hold our hats, and pray the sun is strong enough to light the way.

Kate Thompson 2/12