Wind,

 

You show yourself in the rumba of the oak leaves,

in the patriotic flip flap of the flag fastened

to its lowest branch, in the tritone of the wind chimes

out by the water’s edge. The distant mountains

form a kind of concert hall of storm sounds,

their acoustics a marvel of nature’s engineering,

making your operatic echo magnify itself

in thrilling arias. But then,

at storm’s end – silence. The moon twins

its spotlight on the water, mirroring

itself. You’ve gone quiet, invisible. Yet,

we know you will outlast us all. In our will

we bequeath you the universe.

Don’t forget your songs, whether or not

anyone is left to hear them.

 

 

Dear (New England) January

 

Thank God for you! How thrilling your certainty, your lack of sun, your icy sidewalks, your air dry dry dry on the skin the lips the eyes, your frosted anthills pancaking gray beneath our boots. The lean coyote’s getting leaner, slinking closer to the house. The mice sneak in behind the dryer where it’s nice and warm.  The pipes will freeze if we don’t stroke them with the hairdryer. No one wants to take a walk and tempt the Devil of Black Ice. Doggie will have to make do with an open door.

Hooray for you, January! There is no greater hope than standing here, planted in the almost-dark of 4 o’clock. It was darker just two weeks ago, when your older sister dressed herself in Christmas sparklers, merry-making in tiny multi-colored stars. December. The big tease. Will you won’t you will you won’t you snow on Christmas eve? Bring the airports to their knees? Leave travelers sleeping on the floor surrounded by their desperate festive packages?

Dearest January. You rock ‘n roll our thermostats through February.  The snowman’s carrot nose has come unhinged, slipsliding towards muddy March. The ice dams cometh. Finally,  April. The bravest flowers poke themselves out of the ground. Birds rev up their manic songs in search of mates. Gardeners rake the dead-brown earth. The arborists swoop in, warning of the latest moth-infesting threat to oak, maple, birch…. More money. Also, however, grass. Green leaves. More light.

More light. Spring. Summer. We salute you Janus, two-headed God of portals. You know that, like the past, our future rests assured. It’s enough to make a bully weep with gratitude.

 

Marian Kaplun Shapiro

 

Marian Kaplun Shapiro, a previous contributor, is the author of a professional book, Second Childhood (Norton, 1988), a poetry book, Players In The Dream, Dreamers In The Play (Plain View Press, 2007) and two chapbooks: Your Third Wish, (Finishing Line, 2007); and The End Of The World, Announced On Wednesday (Pudding House, 2007). A Quaker and a psychologist, her poetry often embeds the topics of peace and violence by addressing one within the context of the other. A resident of Lexington, she is a five-time Senior Poet Laureate of Massachusetts. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2012.

%d bloggers like this: