Fountain, Field and Forest - 1. Chapter 1

Three birches,

Despite their advanced age

Stand tall and graceful, like thoroughbreds,

With supple limbs and green manes stirred by the warm breeze;

At their feet, the brook whispers a song

To charm the daylilies

Into bloom.

~ ~ ~

About halfway up the rise,

on the east side of the meadow,

my grandfather found a spring

bubbling out of the granite stones;

there he dug a surface well

and encased it in cinder blocks

so to save only for him

its cold north-country clarity

and unique mineral taste.

He ran a line of one-inch pipe

down to the old house he bought

to bring its dry bones back to life

and to mix in his bourbon.

But water being what it is,

a new stream escaped its pen

and flowed out between two maples;

on one of these, Granddad hung

a blue enamelware ladle,

so a thirsty explorer,

emerged from the primeval woods,

might thereby slake a fierce thirst

without first wiping dirty boots

on Grandmother’s clean-swept porch.

And what could tempt bold heroes

indoors on such bright days as these

when a world of adventures

like none Lewis and Clark heard of

waited in the woods and fields;

when great feats of engineering –

monstrous dams, unyielding forts –

lay unbuilt beneath the blue sky?

And where to fill one’s canteen

On a winding, arduous trail

Is better than a clear spring,

With its old, sky-speckled ladle?

~ ~ ~

Horsetails grow

Where the brook becomes pond,

and on the stones which mark its border

frogs rest from their exertions and soak up the sun

while they watch with wary, bulging eyes

for bold, tanned summer boys

on the hunt.

~ ~ ~

In the smaller side meadow,

beyond the reach of Grandma’s voice,

a wild patch of blueberries

grew over a rocky outcrop,

sharing the space with lichens

and circled by everlastings.

By tall grass time in July,

one could find a sanctuary there

behind a timothy screen

hidden from prying adult eyes,

in which to read undisturbed,

or snack on nature’s offerings

and listen to the swallows’

gossip with every swoop and dive.

And in my midsummer’s hour,

I brought another to that place,

to circle one another

as we shared the tiny dark fruit

which stained our fingers purple

while we talked about everything

and nothing that mattered most,

though we lay so close together

on the warm ground, our arms touched,

our laughter rising like incense.

Even though it was my wish,

there was no star yet visible;

thus I left his lips unkissed

and for that afternoon undared,

my secrets still in hiding

beneath the sun, in the tall grass.

~ ~ ~

Cicadas

Told us that blackberries

Would soon ripen where fallen trees

had opened a hole in the forest canopy,

And beckoned those who would brave their thorns

To come fill their buckets

With the sun.

~ ~ ~

If you looked, you could discern

a small gap in the wall of trees

where grass stopped and forest grew

and a curious soul could stoop

to follow a narrow path

deeper between spruces and pines

growing in what was pasture

seven generations ago

that twisted through the woodlot

to emerge on a logging road

where fresh-cut conifers once

began their trek to the sawmill.

Those on the path encounter

the oddity of a stone wall

made from glacial granite rocks

dug from the earth, dragged by oxen

into their last fixed places

in an adolescent era;

now they mark no field, but draw

a line to bisect the forest

and make shelter for chipmunks

beside wide mats of deep green moss.

A fair piece beyond the wall

and uphill on the rutted road

the power company cut

a right-of-way, the straightest in

all of northern New England,

where from underneath their frail lines

one could see rank upon rank

of blue-green mountains forever;

but surviving the decades

stood one singular grand white birch,

out of reason older than

any of its kin and brethren

in which one could yet make out

faint initials my parents carved

so anyone could see them,

and where I added yours to mine.

~ ~ ~

Grandmother

Planted yellow iris

Beside the tall, old-fashioned lilacs

which flourished behind the house by Granddad’s bedroom;

when she passed, I dug scions and corms

to help them grow in my

memory.

~ ~ ~

I must drive from dawn to dusk,

through mountains and back in time

to visit that place again,

between the bend in the dirt road

and where it disappears

over the hill by Hooker’s fields.

My grandmother’s kitchen perch

where she watched each car on the road

and her living room rocker

are all gone, burned up in the fire

that left nothing of the house

my grandfather bought and restored

except a forlorn chimney

and the barn, with its weathervane

of a horse in full gallop

that he made in his own workshop.

The back field, though overgrown,

Still rises toward Libra at night,

while a persistent searcher

can locate hidden blueberries

near the spot where I beheld

a fearless adolescent wolf

two years ago, come last June.

Echoes of whispered young voices,

are carried on some zephyr

to a heart once filled and broken,

later restored to itself

by the symphony of silence

where meadow and forest meet.

And if one tunes old ears with care,

it’s possible to follow

the music of water at play

to a clear spring emerging

amongst the ancient mossy stones

where a blue-speckled ladle

still hangs from a tree on its nail.

~ ~ ~

Clear sweet notes

still ring across that field

when the white throated sparrow sings to me

of endless summer days and crystal-clear cold nights,

when I belonged to that new green world

before necessity

bade me leave.