NIGHT TABLE
Here is part of you
While you sleep —
The small shine
Of silver earrings
DOGS IN SNOW
I bring them out water
They drink around the ice
Chains rap on the bucket
Shivering I wait
Looking up into the stars
What I see in their eyes
Plowing back to the house
After shaking their coats goodnight
Strength in my hands
THE PLEASURES OF LOVE
The last of my noon hour
Black tin lunch pail
Sitting on a sap soaked maple stump
Woodchips nettled on my woolen socks
Finding the fruit cup she made for me
Clear cold glass in my oiled hand
Neat slices of strawberry and pear
DECEMBER
She’s supposed to be land clearing
Heaping brush to burn in first snow
But the pale yellow ghost of tall
Summer grasses she sweeps down
Is instead caught in her hand
And placed that way in a kitchen vase
Showing a warmth to last us through winter
WORK GLOVES
On the garden gate
Left here with me —
Shape of her hands
I HAVE BEEN TOLD
Down on the river
There is a small place
Where there is no sound
Nothing, and I know it well
And I have been told
And since found
That when climbing back
Loaded with water
At the top of the rise
If you half turn your head
The river will tilt into your ear
HORSE & FARMHAND
Here is the slowness
Of afternoon and sun
A farmhand bending to lift
A sleeve of ice
From a trough
In the pasture
The horse that stands still
The snow we’ve been waiting for
WINTER DAY
I swore if you laid
Your cheek, wind
Blown red as any
Soft maple leaf
Onto the pond,
And looked down through
The half-foot of
Ice, the rest was
Water flowing clear
Way back up to you —
The scales of depth
Catching your breath
MANY TIMES
There is the absolute way
Of doing it, and we have done it
Many times and again —
How I will come to you
How you will meet me
The early morning sun
Perfect on the bed, and
Stripes in the Mexican blanket
Like blood, the sea, yellow iris petals —
And it is a silly lovers ritual of ours,
I hug you and you hug me and step onto
My boots, and I walk you and me around the
Sunlit room, the sway of patchouli in your hair,
And your face smooth against my lips
Like the inside of your hands
THE SKIN OF HER NECK
Tonight, because her hand is in pain, the small finger
Swollen, yes, I’ll stir the
Batter, although she is better
And first taught me how
Something is done right.
And I came from behind
And smelled the skin of
Her neck, the long blonde
Hairs alive and the blouse
White and rough, tucked into
A thin summer skirt.
Winter, near Christmas,
3 feet of snow and her
Body moves across the
Cabin room with summer,
A clay bowl with
Colored stripes in her
Arms, the fresh heat
Of the flat iron stove.
REDTAIL
By the river I found her —
Long and short feathers matted by weeks of rain,
A soft spotted down on her chest,
The whole body twisted in the crotch of an ironwood
This hawk hung and not a right way to die.
Nudged out with my axe handle it fell with no life,
Eyes gone and the rotting smell of blood and grease.
I cut the claws for the first time, others I’ve left —
One talon broken off and the muscular flex of skin
No different than a man’s, except for the ruggedness,
The pale yellow of it, but a companion to my own.
And the tail feathers — still a beautiful tan — pinned
Open for flight on rough pine boards inside our cabin,
I only buried some of her.
THE WOODCUTTER TALKS
I’ve got to go pretty soon
So I’ll take my boots off
And shake out the snow,
Sit close to the fire you
Have built, then left for me.
I’m in no hurry until the sun comes up.
My snowshoes need new leather straps
But for now they’ll have to do,
Carry me to the woods where I work
Thinning out the half bowl of a hillside —
That’s what it looks like — and sometimes
I rest and watch it for what it is, with my
Wet gloves off, the clearness above me.
© Bob Arnold
from Where Rivers Meet
(Mad River Press)
photos © bob arnold
