Moose Brook Brimming

 

 

Moose Brook stumbles over rocks

exposed by its gusts of erosion.

We gaze at the reckless flow

caused by the warping of spacetime.

Einstein knew a thing or two

the way we know angels don’t exist

yet exert massive influence.

 

The brook is headstrong with melt.

No angels, but wanton forces

prod and mock the sudsing current,

accounting for its outraged look.

If we could flow with such power

we’d smooth ourselves into success,

both worldly and the other kind.

 

The brook tolerates and even

thrives on a rough geometry

that could easily break our bones.

Maybe we also would thrive

if thaw bulked our modest egos

the way it has bulked Moose Brook,

roaring with unfiltered lust.

 

 

 

Elegy on Ice

 

 

Parked beside the frozen lake

we munch blueberry muffins

and slurp our dark roast coffee.

The plain sheet of lake regards

the sky with something like worship

but lacking that subservience.

Such broad dimensions regret

nothing, rooted in creation

that continues to self-create.

No ice fishing, no snowmobiles,

nothing but an unwritten text.

Maybe the ice isn’t thick enough

to brace the wooden bobhouses

that used to pepper the scene

on the boldest winter mornings.

I wish we could fold up the lake

and an equal expanse of sky

and bring them home to install

in our back yard. Then we’d enjoy

this expanse until it thawed

and wept into the water table

where our deepest thoughts deploy.

 

 

New England Aster

Almost an Ode

 

Radiance of New England Aster

flatters my agrarian instincts.

Am I thinking potatoes, wheat,

cabbage? This ripe shade of blue

nourishes more than orange or green

vegetables by filling cavities

 

eroded in my aesthetic sense.

You also admire these flowers,

which brace a phalanx in the park

by the river. We never see

anyone pause to examine them.

Dogwalkers sport admirable pets

 

but focus on their cell phones,

tourist hustle toward the café,

the rare courting couple lose

themselves in each other. Trained

by peering into Monet’s landscapes,

we mingle structure and color

 

in a soup of vague affection

taught by the arts but invoked

only by fauna and flora.

The river considers itself

a life-form, and we must agree.

It coughs and sputters and slops

 

right up to our feet and smiles.

Looking upstream from the park,

we note broken trees toppled

down the steep bank near the highway.

Such entropy also nourishes

by recycling carbon-based matter

 

that composes all our thoughts.

Although autumn suggests we’re old,

it allows a glimpse of aster

to ease the tension otherwise

affixed to distant horizons—

the myth of the vanishing point.