Groundhogs
Two poets walking up a path as groundhogs
chatter over the morning grass;
they eat the world at their feet.
Such earnest faces, gnawing at their discoveries,
and though you may not distinguish it
they are laughing as they go,
so full of seeds and shade, a life apart
from beavers building dams
or squirrels hoarding acorns in the deep.
They dig to the heart of the earth
to find their shadow, then let it go
when they wish for spring.
Or grasp it like a quilt before long winters;
I should know, having been one with them,
these long months an animal asleep.
I woke up long ago in an open country,
left my burrow and went wandering
on a path learned by groundhogs.
from beavers building dams
or squirrels hoarding acorns in the deep.
They dig to the heart of the earth
to find their shadow, then let it go
when they wish for spring.
Or grasp it like a quilt before long winters;
I should know, having been one with them,
these long months an animal asleep.
I woke up long ago in an open country,
left my burrow and went wandering
on a path learned by groundhogs.
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Got this idea from the poem "Waxwings" by Robert Francis. Went with my own animal and my own conclusion.
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Walking The Dog
He leads from our house down a tired road
trotting like the master of a thousand men.
He rushes as usual behind a crowd of maples
to sniff out canine neighbors and fowl presence.
Bursting off from the ground, already
the geese are in their places: a perfect V formation
flying away. It is always at this hour, passing by,
when a day of my past slips away with them
and circles back around, faithful and soft:
a moment from my childhood looks back at me
to the time we hid ourselves beside a lake of geese
and broke bread with them to exchange forgiveness
as now so often, when I am hungry for mercy,
when past pardons seem to disappear like birds
too far off to be remembered, I hold out my hand
with a treat prepared for the one who stands close.
I believe my dog knows this, faithful lord that he is,
and brings me back day after day to remind me.
He knows which roads twist to where peace is
and he discerns the right pace to pad on home.
An who am I to argue with intelligence?
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This is a revision of an older poem of mine - I'm still trying to get the last middle stanzas right, but I think I'm headed in the right direction.
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What is it that drives snow
deep into my lungs?
Cold as we are cold
when surrounded
by falling.
Warm when it is bright
and we are laughing
while children slide.
Or was it I sliding
down into a past
I will not forget?
The hills are small.
It only lasts minutes.
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Just a short one I wrote after the recent snowstorm we had here, and after I felt silly, but happy, riding down a small hill on cardboard.
If you have any questions or comments to give about any of these poems, please let me know. I'm always looking for feedback.
