The month in poetry: On waking slowly

Eyes closed at first,/ wintering inside the earth,/ black matted fur/ dampness pressing soft eyelids/ shut to outlast frost/ heaving around him.

The state suggests I bring in my bird/ feeders./ If I don’t want to find myself/ staring into two dark eyes./ If I have enough courage./ To step onto my porch./With my bugle. My flag.

This week’s featured poet, Tatum Raphael of Vergennes, writes about a climber drawing from an inner well of strength to scale the height of an icy cliff face and experience the pride of planting a flag.

a light sparkles/ a tiny diamond/ from a house/ across the river/ through winter woods/ the other side of town…

‏I was driving through the fields of Heaven when I realized I was still on Earth,
because Earth was all I had ever known of Heaven and no other place would do
for living forever.

No one could say who they were./ The men at the perimeter./ Why they appeared in uniforms./ Seemed to be wearing badges/ stitched into their shirts./ At this distance five-pointed stars.

Most of the time the dark waters will rise,/ then fall into sun and birdsong, everything/ glistening, vivid as broken glass in fresh mud…

The Rose of Sharon/ and the Trumpet Vine/ are always the last to leaf out./ Everything else is green —/ has been since the end of April.

For Peter Lebenbaum and his long service with the Counseling Service of Addison County.

It was twilight all day./ Sometimes the smallest things weigh us down,/ small stones that we can’t help/ admiring and palming.

A Poet, In a Field Near Robert Frost’s Cabin, Lifts Enormous Boulders with his Mind

All that is beautiful/ that slips away––/ a December night/ that before was November/ and September and before that,/ July when days were blue silver/ waves we swam through.

The storm before Christmas and all through the house/ No appliance was whirring, not even a mouse

There’s something to be said for banality,/ the way it keeps everything on a level plane,/ one cliché blithely following another/ like cows heading toward the pasture.

A saturated meadow,/ Sun-shaped and jewel-small,/ A circle scarcely wider/ Than the trees around were tall…