Vermont Meditation (tentative title)

Beneath a notched sycamore

the grass catches scars of autumn

falling as notched pages, torn from a book,

would fall – (aptly) swaying like pendulums

ticking away the days until December.

The pages traipse towards the water’s edge –  

towards the lake, the cobblestoned rut,

and crowd against the limestone breccia

like scrawled marginalia too cramped and blurred to read.

Empty spaces, lattice-like against the sky,

left by the pages peeled away,

are gaps among the leaves –

now, and now –

like missed beats in a symphony,

gaps on a staff –

a brazen emptiness,

now, and now –

the notes unfurl,

rests crescendo

into the penultimate silence

still falling, still to fall –

the unheard played beneath the heard.

Traffic Laws

Rain and asphalt embrace

like a slap across the face,

repeatedly –

it can be heard for miles, I should guess;

the glass cries,

wipes its eyes,

and cries again,

the rivulets of water trickling like ants across the soil,

with no apparent place to go,

just down, diagonally.

The red streaks

and a massive game of Tetris –

the gaps that open and fill

(if you know where you fit, then get there

faster) –

blur into an impressionist painting:

“Starry Night, plus Traffic.”

Arms wave, back and forth,

as if the highway were a summer concert –

they wipe the glass,

returning resolution

to what was once

beautiful.

Next Door

an imitation of “Fern Hill” by Dylan Thomas

Now I was quick and eager as a young bird in the trees

About the leafy shadows and lonesome as the sun was lone,

            The sky above the tinned roofs cloudy,

                Rain waited and let me run

            Reddened in the shadows of his smile,

And knighted by myself I was Sir of Imagination

And once before I had woken and counted pirate ships

                Chasing the wake of my vessel

            Over the crimson waves of sunset.

And I was flitting like dandelion seeds, spent my days

About the happy grass next door and playing to my fancy

            With that smile and that heart of gold.

                Rain fell quick on tinned roofs

            Reddened by the rear lights of the cars

And the setting sun, till the sky becomes as an abyss,

Red reflections cold on the wet asphalt streak behind me

                And childhood fled

            From the knighted Sir who tamed the Rain.