Moose Brook Brimming

 

 

Moose Brook stumbles over rocks

exposed by its gusts of erosion.

We gaze at the reckless flow

caused by the warping of spacetime.

Einstein knew a thing or two

the way we know angels don’t exist

yet exert massive influence.

 

The brook is headstrong with melt.

No angels, but wanton forces

prod and mock the sudsing current,

accounting for its outraged look.

If we could flow with such power

we’d smooth ourselves into success,

both worldly and the other kind.

 

The brook tolerates and even

thrives on a rough geometry

that could easily break our bones.

Maybe we also would thrive

if thaw bulked our modest egos

the way it has bulked Moose Brook,

roaring with unfiltered lust.

 

 

 

Elegy on Ice

 

 

Parked beside the frozen lake

we munch blueberry muffins

and slurp our dark roast coffee.

The plain sheet of lake regards

the sky with something like worship

but lacking that subservience.

Such broad dimensions regret

nothing, rooted in creation

that continues to self-create.

No ice fishing, no snowmobiles,

nothing but an unwritten text.

Maybe the ice isn’t thick enough

to brace the wooden bobhouses

that used to pepper the scene

on the boldest winter mornings.

I wish we could fold up the lake

and an equal expanse of sky

and bring them home to install

in our back yard. Then we’d enjoy

this expanse until it thawed

and wept into the water table

where our deepest thoughts deploy.