Too Simple

Collapsed in the forest a mile

from water deep enough to float it

a boat splays in a bed of leaves.

Given this frank dereliction

Rimbaud might have prophesied

this failure of the romantic quest.

And shocked by his naïve outlook

Shelley’s hero would have drowned

in a stream barely deep enough

for wading. The rotting planks

look soft as sponge cake. Hard

to believe this craft ever buoyed

pairs of duck hunters in autumn

when the flyways crackled with game.

Now a bustle of insects claims

the dark beneath the hulk. A rasp

of phoebe’s the only birdsong

in this sadly depleted season.

I want this boat to drift again

among the lilies of Noone Pond.

I want some brazen young hero

to resurrect and deploy it

where the current stalls and last year’s

lone drowned deer has disappeared

with the breakup and exit of ice.

But already it’s more forest,

more wood decay assuming

a certain organic perspective

with which I shouldn’t interfere.

Even snapping a photo hurts

the symmetry of the scene

because I can’t plant myself

at an angle shallow enough

to catch the complete surrender

of matter to matter: a moment

too simple for art to prolong.

Feeding the Wild World

Deer and wild turkeys quarrel

over cracked corn strewn in my yard.

The deer wield hooves, the turkeys

peck and display. Each party

applies dirty looks. The corn on snow

looks festive and ornamental,

like gold dust sprinkled in quartz.

The world revolves on an axis

that terminates right at that stump,

the one on which a tom turkey

displays a halo of spiked feathers.

The deer refuse to kneel and honor

this phenomenon. Magnetic north

occurs just under the snow,

prickling their hides. I’d spread

more corn, enough for all parties,

but my appearance would spook the deer,

dismay the turkeys, and rupture

the electromagnetic tension

that holds this scene together.

Later, tired of watching the squabbles,

I’ll exit into the forest and slog

thigh-deep through pathless snow

to find an ornamental moment

I can call my own. A boulder

wigged with a snow-cap would do.

Or a wind-broken pine kneeling

with its crown all brittle and rusty.

The forest will scowl but tolerate

my presence. My clumsy deep tracks

will embody my form so firmly

the deer and turkeys, returning

to their customary habitat,                                                

in discovering the trail I’ve left

will be glad they didn’t cross me

in my gross inconceivable flesh.

Maxine Kumin: In Memoriam

 Maxine Kumin died recently. We were friends for many years.

Snowshoeing in the Joppa Woods

In Memoriam: MK

Snowshoeing in the Joppa woods

in concave February light,

I feel slight as punctuation,

my bigfoot tracks so shallow

a breath would fill them behind me.

The hemlock are breathless, though,

and thrust their armfuls overhead

as if offering them to the sun.

At the end of this unplowed road

your barn-red farmhouse clutches

three hundred acres of forest

and one small frozen pond where

skinnydipping in hot weather

defies clouds of mosquitoes and flies.

I skimmed over that pond this morning

and flayed it with my sullen gait.

Your reading tour in the South

has left your farm in my keeping.

Caesar, your Dalmatian, follows me

in the hock-deep snow. We’re friends,

your dog and me. Our habits

revolve around eating and walking,

reading and target shooting,

and refusing to answer the phone.

You trust me with your possessions,

but I’ve never met your children,

grown in all directions, and doubt

that your husband recalls my name.

The woods smell sweet as a bakery.

The sizzle of my broad-based stride

topples the silence and comforts

the dog, who wonders where you’ve gone.                                   

Meanwhile in your best beige suit

you’re basting a college audience

in your crisp suburban soprano.

They’ve never seen a woman like you,

whose verse straddles its victims

with a sly aggressive confidence

and tugs at various organs

until the creature laughs or cries.                       

Caesar slogs along, resigned

to my company. The sun drops

below the crest of the Mink Hills,

the hemlocks droop as if flirting,

and the old Joppa graveyard

thrusts a few illegible slates

into a jeering blackish smile.