Cup (remembering the old man)
We
watched the thunderstorm
Blow
over from the west,
Darken
the upper hill of
Pasture,
brush away
Daylight
in barn
Windows,
make it awful
Dark
for two-in-the-afternoon
You
said, now listen
And
because you usually
Only
spoke when you had
Something
to say, I did
Listen,
nearly held my breath
Waiting
— looking up into
Your
eyes and tiny white
Hairs
in your nose and ears
And
when the shower began
We
heard it first in the
Wave
of trees far off —
You
looked and
Smiled
at me
Hoping
I had heard it —
Those
few seconds in life
When
earth, trees and even man
Turn
their cup up to the rain
The Man Who Spoke To Animals
Today I heard Mason Weathers was put
Into the hospital a month ago after
A stroke, and I thought he was
Missing this fall when geese
Passed over his hill-farm’s steel roofs
Heading south with the river
Mason is always up and around those days
Even though he is two years retired from
Farming and is said to sit in a chair
Smoking cigarettes by his roadside window,
Wondering like a few of the old timers left —
What in the world has happened
To all this land and town he loves
Many years ago he gave up attending
Town meeting — was busy sawing logs for taxes —
But of course it was the new people
Now in the chairs of his dead friends
That drove him away, into deeper snow
Clutching a chain saw
One time I borrowed from Mason
His heavy snag of tractor rope
To do tree work for people he knew
In the village, and in my rush limbing
Sawed off a six-foot tail of that rope —
When I brought it back Mason met me
On his porch — with its pose over the
Valley — a smile on his muscular face,
Nodded and said, “It was all right, just
Six-feet shorter,” then walked back inside
They say today he has no memory for
That sort of thing. Sits up in a hospital
Bed with daily visits from his wife Ruth
Who tells friends back home Mason has
Been struck with sugar, and the stroke has
Left one side of his body blank as
A dead elm tree — imagine a man who once
Spoke to animals ending up this way
The Reason I Love to Build Stone Walls
and
have for so long
is
that I need few
tools
to do the job
I
could walk to work
free
at hand
nearly
whistling
until
I arrive
(not
wanting to
look
too happy)
and
the stones
are
there lopsided
appearing
miserably
out
of place to
someone
else
as
I kneel
maybe
with a 3 lb.
hammer
I’ve brought
_________________
Bob Arnold
Once In Vermont
Gnomon
