Nancy: Suddenly, if not surprisingly, it arrives, like the parade that you know is just up the road. Some drama, some beauty, exciting until it wears out its welcome and we begin to count the minutes of returning light.
with a sun turning, saying no
no, I’ll never leave you, tiptoeing
back up the hill
with a moon hanging sweet, yellow
as a plum in bare branches
with a tide flooding its sprills
and riffles through the poplar grove
with a proclamation: here
a small bird
black and white, is singing
a song of himself, here
in the scarlet brambles
Alan: For 12 years our road was impassible in winter. From mid-December sometimes until the end of April, we’d walk, snowshoe, ski – whatever it took – dragging our groceries or clean laundry behind us on a sled. No lights, no sound of traffic, just the land and water and the prayer of a small house at the end.
Snow in our faces,
foghorn in our ears,
you a stiff child-shape
against the blank where the bay must be.
Fenceline, crazy leaners,
this is a long way in
for the bloodhounds of the snow.
The packed edge sliding away underfoot.
A tuft, here and there, dried spoor of autumn.
A rise, a slowing,
drift of spent wood smoke
from that hole in the sky
that must be home.