Page 80 - WCM-2021-Summer-Flip

Spring
The last of the firewood in the woodshed
is no longer neatly stacked,
the choicest pieces long since chosen in the quest to be warm.
Now it’s down to choosing to expend energy
splitting those remaining unruly chunks
or sweeping up random bark and kindling sized nuggets.
I choose the latter,
wishing I had brought a bucket instead of the wheeled wood carrier.
I use my shirt as a basket
holding it up with one hand, while filling it with the other, the air is cool on my bare midriff.
Back to the house with my hoard,
down the path that once was snow and ice now granular, warmed by the early spring sun.
There in the protected niche
between the steps and foundation
a wild pansy has overcome the obstacles of winter.
Its delightful Johnny Jump Up face
has pushed it way through the miniscule crack, which brings a smile to mine.
Claire Sessions
Twilight
At the edge of old pines, blue shadows skim across the river
as the scrawny fox scouts—alert to trout splashing in the shallows
feasting on mayflies. Hidden birds cry under crescent moon’s cradle—
crouched bobcat’s eyes glow.
Nancy Ann Schaefer
Upta Camp
Rhythmic thumping
of the tethered boat bumping the wooden dock, source of splintered feet
and feet-first dives
into the cold, spring-fed lake, leaving us breathless
and eager to do it again, daring those who dare
to swim to the rock
and back,
falling fatigued upon
this spit of beach,
reaching for sun tea.
Skies the color
of Paul Newman’s eyes darken at dusk to pink, then ink-black
broken by the Milky Way, no need to speak
at the vastness of it all,
no urban pall of light
to mar the dark.
The inviting daytime aroma of grilled burgers and red dogs surpassed by the evening scent of wood-smoked s’mores
from far off campfires.
Swimsuits and towels
dry overnight
on a clothespinned line, sufficient summer wardrobe with a sweatshirt.
Musty cot on a screened-in porch as loons lullaby my way to sleep.
Darlene Glover
80
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