WHEN THE WINTER SNOWS CAME

WHILE THE MUSE DANCED IN ARGENTINA

Now how can I write a poem

when nobody’s knocking,

my knees ache like bad teeth,

the cold snap has gone on for too long,

dinner’s riding high in my stomach,  

the evening news has got me down,

my feet want to get away to some place warm, 

the poem is due tomorrow,

my days are sifting away,

Mother’s house waits to be cleaned out,  

Republicans hold the country hostage,      

it’s December 14^th

and I’ve yet to buy my first Christmas gift.

Tell me, you think the muse cares?

TATTERED WING OF FLAME

Driving the hills, the winding roads of Pennsylvania farmland

bent in its brown furrows

across the face of a cold, clear, early autumn day

the red-tailed hawk, bold in sun reflected bronze,

stood solitary sentinel

in a roadside tree shed of its leaves.

In that one burning moment I yearned

to be hawk,

naked in the pure light of day,

holder of crystal vision,

hollow boned,

and winged to touch the heavens

but the heavens -- knowing man was destined

to fly with leaded feet

and walk with tattered wing of flame --

sent me on my way.

YESTERDAY

Aprons, tea towels, letters saved,

stamps too,

postcards from the Holy Land

green Depression-ware bowls,

photographs,

her notes on the back

graduation announcements,

birthday cards from grandchildren,

great-grandchildren too

Dad’s citation for meritorious work,

yellowed news articles,

George Beltzhoover’s obituary,

Mom’s last church photograph,

a smile

from her ninety-first year

the albums, the boxes

saved,

brought home to my house

everything touched.

Tell me,

what did you do with your past?