December \ The Old Woman Refuses

Alan: Like the crows, we forage where we can, find what we can, and await the cold.

December

Grass

still green on the slope

where the sun finds it

despite the hard frosts

The crows

fly agape

each with a jammed-in apple

corking its caw

top-heavy with hunger

We have pawned the jewelry

the guitar and

my best coat

I have opened my hand

to what we have

to get us through:

a few dark seeds

a fleck of red

a little pulp

Nancy: Of course I believe words are magic, especially well chosen words.

The Old Woman Refuses

She won’t hear wind,

she hears the marsh grass singing

   songs, she hears sparrows

   sweet, sweet, sweet

She won’t say ice,

no, she says ephemeral,

ripples, mummichogs

She erases words,

leaves willow green, sap,

fiddlehead

If you ask her, “where are the birds?”

she will tell you they flew out

early and far, and are bringing

the sun from the sea

There!  she says, there,

that light on the ledge?

The Sun!