by the Yeomen on April 1, 2013
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
by the Yeomen on March 15, 2013
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
