ARCHIVE (BOB ARNOLD) ~

from Cache, Bob Arnold

Mad River Press

(Richmond, MA)

WARM ~

Warm

Apple, poplar, ash,

Cherry, red maple,

Pine, basswood, oak,

These are the woods

That we sawed today,

In two hours of thinning,

Selecting, we made a cord —

Trampled branches on snow

Worked without words.

Simple thoughts, like picking

Up these sticks — back and

Forth in the mind — until we

Stop to rest together against

The pile, brushing off woodchips,

Shedding hats and gloves,

And because we kiss, I warm

My hands beneath your blouse.

First Snow As I Split Wood

Thin snow falling into

Valley fog, quiets everything,

No bird call, nothing flying.

The splitting wedge and hammer

Echo over the pasture

While the flakes open bigger

For no reason other than snow.

And I straighten my sweaty back

To watch this world, lend a tongue

And taste it melt.

Scout

Here you are again

Late at night

Snow falling in the valley

Life on snowshoes

Hardly faraway from home

In fact, isn’t that the glow

Of the kitchen lamp

Lighting through the trees

I’ve spend the better part

Of darkness stamping in

A mile wide circle enjoying

The measure of going nowhere

Stand with me

Waste some time

Everything you’ve always wanted

Is all around you.



_________________

Bob Arnold
Where Rivers Meet
Mad River Press






Susan photograph by Bob Arnold , 2016

FARMER'S WIFE ~

Farmer's Wife

Four dozen eggs under her arm,

That’s how she greeted us.

We weren’t coming for eggs

But for a currant bush

Waiting in the dooryard

Wrapped tight in burlap.

I lifted it into the back

Of the truck since that’s

What I was hired to do,

Waited in the early sun

Leaning against the tailgate

While the two old ladies talked.

And with the eggs still under

Her arm she also turned to speak

With me, eyes dazzled like light

In water, checkered blue flannel

Shirt, out-worn by all of her

Sons and now on her back; torn

At the elbows, but warm.

Everything is just right

On this hill farm and I’ve only

Been here 5 minutes. Crows flap

West to east from the wood’s edge

Long over the flat face of pasture.

A manure spreader is backed up

To the kitchen door stacked neat

With stovewood, the lawn is mowed,

And we’ve caught this farmer’s wife

In between the chicken coop and

The house; white hair combed back

With ruddy hands that pick eggs

Each morning, and when she talks

She mentions all of her family.



__________________

Bob Arnold
Where Rivers Meet
Mad River Press

REAL LIFE ~

Real Life

It was a hot day thrown suddenly cool

By that hard rain, poured off the slate roof barn

When the boy was hit by lightning.

Standing safe, he thought, in the large doorway,

Eaves above him tapping,

Farm trucks shining up.

Big for his age, father’s overalls, watching things,

Whole complexion tan like pure maple syrup

The stuff he gathered with his grandfather and horses.

His old man and older brothers stoke and boil the wood fire,

Spend those long nights in the sugar house.

The way the light spills out of the small steamy windows

All over snow, dreamy in the valley.

Well a mean bolt came down from the sky to end that,

A splitting axe flying.

Water dripping smooth from the roof edge

Splashes onto his boots and cuffs,

Hayseed still itching his back,

Cows poking behind him in their stalls.

Need a light already it’s getting so dark, he thought —

Struck him from the forehead straight down

Cracked him open like nothing should be.

The family dog lay nearby on a broken bale

Like he has for 15 Julys,

Large head on his paws tilted and watching

Rain burning the ground.

_____________________ 

Bob Arnold

WHERE RIVERS MEET 

BOB ARNOLD ~

sweetheart

photo ~ bob arnold

Love and Landscape

Don’t ask us how we crossed the saltwater marsh

Grasses were high and easy under foot

The last stream was spanned by a driftwood plank

Thrown carefully into the muck

I didn’t sink and you didn’t sink

And when we came to ocean

Skittering of sandpipers

You held your dress and walked into the spray

It must have been also the sudden daylight that I loved

What I Hear

This river water is

The warm breath of

Her whisper, what I hear —

The brown and white flurry

Of her thin clothing

The sweat of handwork

That musses the long

Blonde hair — dirt across

The forehead, may I wash

It off? thicken my hands

In that hair, kiss what I love

Away from our work and bathing

Part whisper and part water

Hummingbird

Rarely pausing

Though I have seen

It stop the flutter

Of its amazing

Wings and perch

Nearly invisible

On a wire against

The evening sky —

And be sighted —

And being very

Still, be thought

Of as not there

 

How We Build

It is a day

Of sawing slab wood

Splitting

Then stacking

And be done

Tucking away insulation

Fixing windows

Sharpening every tool

The happy moment

Is there are still

Small grasshoppers

In the slip of meadow

That it is 28 degrees

At 7 this morning

And I wash your hair

In one bucket of

Strong spring water —

There is nothing like it

 
 

 __________________________

Bob Arnold

WHERE RIVERS MEET