Stephen Fuller *** Poetry, Essays

‘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. 

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