Op/Ed
Poetry: This brave state of Vermont and its residents
After the Storm
Gratitude to all of you for checking-in.
Calling me in the middle of the night,
to see if I’m not trying to get some sleep,
sleeping on my roof. The water’s that high
in some places in my brave state
of Vermont. Where the rivulets rise
into rivers, after so much rain.
And the lake is our version of a Great Lake.
It could take a week for the Green Mountain
Boys to row themselves across again.
The cows to settle down, drier now
in their stanchions. In places like Addison,
they could be up to their haunches in mud.
If it weren’t for the sun rising again.
Like, Frost might have said, to dry
the beards of giants and elves. To make
the fields ponds not to canoe around.
Even if it’s true sometimes more rain
is good. Say next fall, when the snow
geese are looking for wet spots to go
with dry rows, to eat leftover corn stalks,
drink a night’s worth of spill.
And, for fun, can make boats
of their bodies. Until they have
to rise in the morning. Head south.
Avoid any promise of flooding.
Which, I’m afraid, isn’t the case now.
In mysterious places like Buel’s Gore
and towns named for presidents.
Even dramatically in Weston.
Renowned for its Playhouse.
Where citizens, actors and directors,
are standing in a bucket brigade.
Passing mud and water—a kind of Vermont
cement—from one neighbor to another.
To let the theater open tonight.
Even if the theatergoers—flatlanders
and Vermonters alike—have to wear
their barn boots, crocs and slippers.
Anything to keep their feet dry.
To hold them, if by chance, they have
to watch the orchestra rising from its pit.
Applaud from their reserved seats
on the roof. Which some nights
wouldn’t be such a bad place to imagine
sitting, closer to the stars and clouds.
If it weren’t for the thunder and lightning,
the flooding brook below.
If you didn’t have to check-in.
For which I am grateful.
You, my company of friends
and family and strangers.
The doe, carrying her fawn,
across the washed-out road.
Gary Margolis
Cornwall
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