Spring Equonox has come and passed. On that day friends balanced eggs on their tips. Day after day, the people of Maine began seeking evidence of the coming of spring. It snowed and snowed some more. The sun came out and the temperatures rose to 50 degrees one day. Then came the rains, followed by snow, followed by hail. Rain. The snow is melting. The sun comes out more often. Birds sing. People are out walking again. Even smiling.
I give you a poem I wrote:
"Only One"
Only one lobster boat on Sunday morning.
Only One.
Only one chair.
Only one ladder.
Only one lobster.
Only one crack in the 78 record.
Only one song.
From the empty church,
with the roof collapsing over the altar,
only one host growing moldy.
Mold growing in his beard,
on his feet,
until the pond arrives
landing on the meadow,
yellow daisies and lavender asters
circling
dancing to the one bag pipe in the center of the pond.
The man stomps his feet to the drum of the jig
as the women arrive in a coracle
on the river flowing in a spiral around him.
He dances in the middle of the line of women
holding hands,
snaking their way in and out,
pulling him along with their song
from the broken record
filled in with silver scales from the fish
that now leap in profusion,
offering themselves on the banks of the river—
a feast of the host.
His feet grow pink in the twilight,
a baby’s feet,
his hair on his beard, the peach fur of a young boy.
The women touch him all over,
finger tips,
a tingling of energy—everything, everyone, every animal and tree,
tingling
with the energy that glows in the dark.
I give you a poem I wrote:
"Only One"
Only one lobster boat on Sunday morning.
Only One.
Only one chair.
Only one ladder.
Only one lobster.
Only one crack in the 78 record.
Only one song.
From the empty church,
with the roof collapsing over the altar,
only one host growing moldy.
Mold growing in his beard,
on his feet,
until the pond arrives
landing on the meadow,
yellow daisies and lavender asters
circling
dancing to the one bag pipe in the center of the pond.
The man stomps his feet to the drum of the jig
as the women arrive in a coracle
on the river flowing in a spiral around him.
He dances in the middle of the line of women
holding hands,
snaking their way in and out,
pulling him along with their song
from the broken record
filled in with silver scales from the fish
that now leap in profusion,
offering themselves on the banks of the river—
a feast of the host.
His feet grow pink in the twilight,
a baby’s feet,
his hair on his beard, the peach fur of a young boy.
The women touch him all over,
finger tips,
a tingling of energy—everything, everyone, every animal and tree,
tingling
with the energy that glows in the dark.