Featured, Poetry, Yvona Fast

Dormant Stillness

by Yvona Fast

Trees clad in rainbows,
One final burst of glory.
Last dip in pond refreshes
on a bright October day.

Brown leaves decay, die.
Summer sighs
a sad sound of goodbye.

Days shorten, nights lengthen.
We plant tulips in anticipation
of new growth, fresh green,
of long, warm summer days.

Crocus waits beneath soil.
Trees lie dormant.
Bears hibernate.
Earth sleeps, rests,
awaiting renewal
beneath a white blanket.

The pond chills,
shivers,
freezes…
we walk on water.

In the stillness
thoughts simmer, ideas slumber
fallow, nurturing future dreams.

Diving into the deep,
minds open to possibilities
yet unimagined.

Ann B. Day, Featured, Poetry

One Last Sweet Breath

by Ann B. Day

The last of summer lingers still,
captured in a golden field
beyond the leafless woods.
I’ve come upon it
quite unexpectedly!

Gone are summer sounds
of humming bees and katydids.
They have fled
the early frosts of fall.

Instead, a gentle breeze
stirs the graying goldenrod,
and sun-warmed soil and yellow grass
glow beneath my feet.

Last week we had an early snow,
frosting morning meadows
and whitening pasture slopes
on autumn’s hillside farms.

Nearby, woods were cold and damp,
where scattered sunlight
slipped through bare branches
to dapple leafy paths below.

But, today November’s
noonday sun has filled this field
with hints of summer smells
and tawny tints.

A hidden place I came-upon,
where summer lingers still;
one last sweet breath
before the winter chill.

Featured, Parker Towle, Poetry

Sugarloaf Descent

by Parker Towle

Low trees and scrub
yield to precipitous
scree slope, an irregular
ladder of stone blocks with no
bushes or tree trunks to cling to.
Switchbacks are few. Cooling breeze
above yields to flushing heat and dripping
sweat. We tumble down through a sparse
gnarl of trees with openings to view their tops on
the valley floor like Christmas trees in a bird’s view.
The Carrabassett River in a rush flashes in sunlight
over rocks far below, silent at first, then with a roar.
Ear pop confirms altitude drop, steepness
subsides, and the stream noise rises. We
step in as quick as we can, duck our
heads under a veil of water,
ah, the chill…

Featured, Martha Deborah Hall, Poetry

May Day, 2013

by Martha Deborah Hall

I open all my windows and doors, blast Bocelli singing con te partiro. Let’s dance around our Maypoles, let the breeze sashay in. Driveway snow has been ferreted. Dogwood blossoms graciously undulate in the yard. I log off my computer. May’s file is alive. I find myself humming, “I’ll see you again whenever spring breaks through again.” At my garden gate, I smear some May dew from a daffodil on my palm and enter.

 

Photograph by Linda J Thomas

 

 

Ann B. Day, Featured, Poetry

Morning Delivery

by Ann. B. Day

In the four A.M. dusk
of a summer morning,
my sleep slides away
into sounds that sift into
our upstairs bedroom window:
tires turning on gravel
a truck’s muffled idle,
boots treading on wood planks
of back porch steps,
glass clinking glass.

A moment later,
more boot steps on wood,
scrunch of gravel,
soft closing of the truck door,
gears shift and fade
into the semi-dark.

I reach over to my husband,
Frank’s side of the bed,
find it empty, remembering
it was his turn to make
milk deliveries for the large farm
where he works.

I lie awake and breathe
into the stillness,
waiting for the first pale light
and the call of the hermit thrush
to rise through the window.

In time, I will go down
to the kitchen, open the screen door,
bring in the quart bottles of milk,
with thick cream rising to the top.
We will have cream with our oatmeal
when Frank comes home.