In Vermont people pinID-10020345

their spin-dried wash

on lines over porches or in yards

where the wind and air weave their fresh messages,

lift the sleeves of a work shirt,

make pennants of pant legs.

In 1953 my mother’s lines were wires

taut between T-shaped metal stanchions,

and she kept a damp rag in the furnace room

for cleaning them of high desert dust

before she hung out the wash.

Sheets and pillowcases first; then my father’s shirts.

Her unmentionables on the middle wire, away

from streetwise eyes. The Washoe Zephyr

surged straight off the cool sides

of Mount Rose into our yard, into

the fresh linens snapping like parade flags. At night

our beds smelled of ponderosa, sun and mountain air,

as they must here, so many years later,

so many states apart.


Photo Credit: “Clothes Line,” Carlos Porto, courtesy of

“There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.”–Gandhi2013 Vermont and Kansas 145


I know the aromas of kneading:

earthy, a bit hoppy, like dark ale

topping a chilled glass

from a keg deep in a basement locker.

And I know the feel and sounds.

Live yeast pushes back at the hand.

The dough blisters, rebounds with

little pops of air. When the dough proofs

it turns foamy, ready to be shaped and laid

in buttered bread pans.

In 40 minutes or so I will remove them

from the oven and tip the loaves

onto a wire rack to cool.

Their perfume rises like a prayer,

and I am back in my mother’s kitchen

at her table, with a pat of soft butter and a jar of jam,

a small glass of milk. Her warm bread she offers

with smiling blue eyes,

a holy communion if ever there was one.

The high south ridge above townID-10010583 mist

wears a gown of wet fog that moves

with the wind. In its folds,

pooling in the low swales,

the fog hides a drummer

tuning the kettles,

while violas thrum fiercely

and the other strings begin a pizzicato

riff. Strobes flash random patterns,

all silver and white, until the players

signal release—the quiet bridge.

Thirteen herons lift off

from hidden nests in the ledge,

the beating of their wings brief applause

for encore after encore.


  1. IMG_0103The Vise

I am holding this vise,

feeling its heft, its solid weight cool

in my hand. Its notches align like little teeth,

a perfect grip whenever the thin

lever turns right.


In 1963, the year he turned sixty,

my father clamped the vise

to his workbench in Billings. I can see him lock in

a marred table leg wrapped with sheeting, hear the click

of the lever he wound, see the light flinch

between the jaws. He knew every grain

as intimately as kin, tended

each scar with healing plane or pumice.

Now the northern ground

clamps him tight, scarred as ancient wood.

When he died, the vise passed to me,

and I took it home as a reminder

of all the good he did.


Now my father sleeps under an iron marker,

Now he mends the light and wind, alone at a table of clouds.


2.Waltzing With My Mother

Our city’s body lay between white flannel sheets,

pulled up last night past its chin,

over its flaccid face.

The soft weave of snow pressed its weight

close to every contour. Truckers,

running late, filled the frozen diners all across our state.

Now a few slow skaters sweep around the rimed ponds.

The whole place has shrugged off business

and fallen fast asleep.


On this sort of day we laid to rest

my mother, dressed in rose. Wind

froze the sleets of grief to our cheeks.

After that there were years

when the snows didn’t come,

the roads were always open,

ponds shrank: The sleep of our mother

unhurried beneath its sheet of silts.

Remember her now, in this gauzy snow,

head tilted, one eye open, perhaps dreaming

of “The Skater’s Waltz” on a placid white pond,

her blades flashing in perfect, three-quarter time.

Image by Tuomas Lehtinen, courtesy of

Image by Tuomas Lehtinen, courtesy of

The sloped meadow shrinks under a thin quilt of ice

that needs patching. Broken thatch shows.

The roadway up to the house is a mud track. Easy

to feel a car slip to the side into the shallow ditch.

We drive slow in the raw wind, or not at all.


In the house we watch

meltwater sluice off the south roof

where the woodstove heat escapes,

winter partner of the sun that surveys

the meadow with its unblinking gaze.

The porch thermometer rarely rises above twenty.

A vole died out there in the cold. We saw its dark

body roll first into a ball, then stretch out on its back,

giving its small heat back to the empty morning. A fox

has crossed twice near there without touching,

and three crows call from the trees.

ID-10025367 marcolmWe are in the woodshed, pulling down

a load of wood for the stove. The logs are birch

and maple, and oak, tan, yellow and brown. No pine,

and not long. They make a puzzle

of triangular ends and rounds, and we fit them

into the wagon like a puzzle, end to end,

irregular shapes on a mission of completion in flame.

The logs find their match in the woodstove,

a mystical communion with fire and a lace

gown of ash, giving their hearts to degrees of heat,

Green Mountain altar in our house. And outside, air

redolent with wood smoke presses above the snowy gardens

like ancient prayers or plainsong.

Photo by Marcolm, courtesy of


Nothing reminds me so much of you

as this red bridge, tied to two worlds,

persistent in courage through

all weathers, still vivid in color.

When I hear the rapids of any river now,

I remember how all my ghosts

dissolved in the purling currents

near your place, both benediction

and baptism, making all things new.

You have sheltered my heart in this land,

soothed my thirst with cool, sweet water,

as if a cup can be a lifeline,

and the water itself a light

that never dies away.


Detail from “Chiselville Bridge,” a painting by Peter Huntoon. Used with permission of the artist.

2013 Vermont and Kansas 145I am sitting in a house amid

plowed fields I know as well

as any place I’ve ever been. I have driven

the Wellman Road in winter, walked

the quarter mile north to the old house where ghosts

of hens and cattle haunt the decaying barn. The land

around here is old, more ancient than glaciers that rose

over relict seas; its people old.

They dip their spoons into gravy that drips

onto mashed potatoes and turkey and sage-flavored

dressing, slowly carry laden plates to a place at the table,

festively lit with gold candles, eat without talking,

embrace their new babies

with something like surprise.

PaperArtist_2014-09-08_19-53-06_resizedMarks of the change of season: the annual autumnal equinox;

Orion and the dog star Sirius, rising in the east just after midnight,

trapping Scorpius like a fox on the run.

A day’s clouds dress

in richer apparel for fall. Dark grays, clearer whites,

and the maples you planted, knowing their flare for drama,

wear sequined gowns of red and orange

for the last dance before the winter snows.


October tempts us to think we’ve seen it all. But the world

is too big to apprehend in a single glance. Only grace matters,

the lucky chance. Dawn races in, later than usual.

Wind from the west is tearing leaves from every tree,

and the leaves are great butterflies streaming,

as in a migration, toward the sun.

IMG_0490On Coleman Hills Road I step back in time. Lichened rock walls

from the 18th century bisect hayfields where a lone farmer mows.

Long-rusted barbed wire weaves a shawl on warps of weathered fencing,

and ancient apple trees drop their red and gold trove into dense grass.

Two old chairs in a side yard wait for someone to sit down in the quiet,

and a doe bounds across the gravel road, melts into a hide deep

in timber. Tonight in sleep I will remember how you slowed

the car, looking out for a fawn or more than one,

and then drove on up the hill toward the red barn and home.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 91 other followers