‘The beech blooms first…’ a poem
The beech blooms first, he noted on
A walk around Simmons Mill Pond
Where once farmers had carved
Lands with stone walls now icons
Of a day when maybe Frost wrote
About neighbors being better friends
Apart from one another, taking turns
Fixing the cairns of my young child’s
Wanderings. My young child, yes,
He did wander long, didn’t he? Long,
Maybe too long. Had to blaze anew.
Now, though, emerging on a path
The chickadees and titmouse and
Nuthatches being the only things
To mark a silence well deserved.
He sits on a wall Frost might have
Repaired. Feeling wet moss seep
Through denim, he listens to tiny
Birds and seeks a measurement
Of Peace. Beside him she sits,
Truth. He had wandered far
From home, but found a way back,
Recalling how that young child
Had stopped beyond the cairns
Long enough to hear her: Truth
Then followed paths elsewhere
Blazed. Now on the wall they mend.
His heart. Her body. Their souls.