Letter to the editor: Getting up early: lacrosse athletes & farmworkers

It’s not my place to suggest/ to your coach, she bus you/ to one of our Addison County/ farms. If you have to be in/ the Field House this early,/ you might as well see/ what’s going on around you.

Oh my director of the national/ portrait gallery/ of owls./ Oh what I wouldn’t give for you/ to leave your doors/ open. For me not to have to/ remember any glass/ painting the streets.

Wasn’t he the guy who wrote poetry/ up in Ripton, you said,/ when I asked you, if you knew/ Frost. If you ever bumped into him./ On one of his trips down the mountain.

It’s not the same as calling it/a night./Saying goodbye. Even/here, in Fenway, there isn’t a wall/between us.

Known for humming when he drilled./Singing, his kind of Novocaine.

My Fellow Bread Loafers   Unlikely you’ve read or heard yet. There are sheets, inscribed. Hanging from the Inn’s deck. Nailed to an Annex post. One, across the field, waving   from Tamarack. Painted red and black. We Belong Here Too. I’m guessin … (read more)

Standing at Greg’s noontime, deli counter, next to one of our Middlebury police officers, I said, Hi, He extended his hand, his name, We greeted each other.

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.

“I can’t say I don’t look forward to this once-/a-year. When I’ll bump into you, elbow one/of my neighbors. By the history table.”

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.

As the title implies, the featured collection gives readers Margolis’s understanding of what it means to be happy. However, by no means should this indicate that every single poem will bring a smile to your face.

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…

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

Here in Cornwall, my small town/ in Vermont, a precinct of deer/ and leaves, I like to think/ Of my neighbors who are likely/ to volunteer for anything. 

I don’t know whether to ride/ my mower or push my snow-blower./ Given what April brings to us.