The Stair, etc.

The Stair

I'm standing in a dank and shadowy machine shed
Breathing in its earthy smell,
Gazing at a wonder,
My own spiral stair
Leading no-where.

I wished it here, I think.
Once on a rare trip into the city
I admired another such stair,
Somewhat grander of marble and metal,
But a similar curving, antique thrill.
I said out loud foolishly,
"Maybe someday,"
And amazingly before too long
My hero husband
Was rescuing a twirling "damsel in distress"
From a dying 1870s farmhouse.

God must have been listening
And took my wishing
For a prayer.

A year now
This wooden relic
Has been the stair for my air castles.

If it were to stay here
What odd fantasies might it incite
In later owners of this place?

It is too large for any earthly home
We can afford to raise
And so, I'm sure
We'll sell it to other dreamers
With deeper pockets.

I am satisfied to have owned it
For these many days,
To have imagined its possibilities.

Now practicality has spun out more realistic
Hope and plans,
I can relinquish the spiral stair
To other hands.


Gray Day

Ice
Thick and glistening gray
Weighs upon the branches
Of every tree.

Every tiny frond of evergreen
Encased, stiff and cold,
Drawn downward by its load.

Ice lays
Like sadness on the heart,
Oppressive
Heavy
Scarring

And melting away
In tears.


The Shoulder

"Writing is not a lady-like activity.
It reveals too much of who we are.
A woman needs a silken wrap of mystery
To fascinate a man,"
Advised Mamman.

But youthful, feminine
France wrote on,
Musing...

After all,
A soul can never completely
Disrobe.
A woman is forever
Modestly, mysteriously
Clothed
In newness,
Is she not?

Heartfelt words on a page
Might be just the tantalizing
Smooth, white shoulder,
The shapely bare ankle,
The very little seen
Which conjures the thought,
"If this, what more?"
That men adore.


Ice, or (Frost on the Window)

Design in one inch repeat.
Colors: Silver and Gold.
Curling feathers in crystalline print,
Feather to feather to feather,
Just touching,
Row upon row.
Perfect,
Ephemeral God cloth
Made of water and sunshine and cold.


March

The poet year is slipping by
And I
Don't want to let it go
Without the written words that make it so.

Terror and loss and war
And a possible interstate
Winding by our back door
Worry my mind.

Baby smiles and cries,
A loving husband,
A gem-house,
And extended family
Fill my time.

Still,
Only words on paper
Make the poet year
An actual happening,
History over fantasy.

March was a vacation.


Snow

Amazing to watch the snow,
Tiny flecks blowing in a white sky.
Many millions of them
Have been waylaid by our snow-fence,
Building up a crystal wall.
And many more, I see,
Passed it by
Drifting free
Across our drive
And country road,
Building up a Snow Day
To keep us home.

Our lane during a snow storm, looking back toward the old barn.