Tsukimi
-viewing
of the moon
Find the moon in early autumn skies
when nights are cool. Find
the best place to gaze
at moonlight with intention.
See the rabbit in the moon pound mochi
rice cakes, have a moon viewing
dumpling, drum performance, tea party.
Have golden lace flowers,
pampas grass in your home.
Rejoice. It is harvest time again.
Ease into impatient winter.
One Autumn Morning in Montpelier, Vermont Many Years Ago
I was on Main Street outside Bear Pond
Books carrying my satchel
that held the collected poems of Lynda
Hall, as well
as a bottle of black ink, one envelope,
some Art of Magic stamps
plus unlined thin, white paper, prepared to
write
a letter to you, now living in Kyoto, as I
sipped green tea
at The Horn Of the Moon on Langdon Street.
I'm sure I'll mention
how yesterday I asked a woman relaxing
on the State House lawn the name and breed
of her dog
that was sniffing the clear air to find a
scent,
the scent of some lost pleasure. “Lana,”
the woman said,
“a brindled Plott Hound, Highland Terrier
mix.”
The dog was sweet tempered. The woman lit a
cigarette and after
she and the brindle had left, I believe I
was imagining
Lana Turner and Frank O’Hara when a fire
engine
sped by, its siren sheer confidence.
How extraordinary to directly interfere with
any careless mistake.
The wind was brisk, the dead gold and red
leaves
scuttle across the pavement. I wanted to
write
how winter might arrive early, craving autumn
might be longer, milder. I believe I wrote
there need be no rush to respond, since the
mail at times
arrives late, or not at all. I must have
written
I was content to wait.
Hotel Vermont
One winter night now a reverie
in shades of blue.
Coin, ring, book and key. One last
spark and hush.
Heat in every breath.
In The North Country
There is no spring No spring
worth chattering about
at length while
you hope to feel the light
cut of a first warm
breeze that might
mingle with mist or rain
while snowmelt
brings flood warnings
some from Lake Champlain
most from the rivers
both the Ausable and Saranac
When you grow hopeful
there is instead
an April snow You have
been fooled again must tromp
all that deep mud
more rain until comes a day
drenched with sun a scent
convincing you
winter might be over
You Want to Know
how many friends I have. Autumn moonlight
over the Hotel Iris. Young writers
direct questions. Green tea
in the morning chill. True
friends stab you in the front
wrote Oscar Wilde.
One hopes.
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