A Year Later

Dad

The paths of past footsteps

have become overgrown with

the passage of each season.

The woodpile stands abandon from

the once energetic woodcutter.

Perennial gardens are left unattended

and deprived of the loving care

of its previous owner.

The dirt driveway once eroded

by the daily travel of your Chevy Pick Up

is now the breeding grounds for

a community of thriving weeds.

Your children are left with

remnants of the past

and echoes of your footsteps.

Symbols remain scattered through

your once private domain.

A cup hanging on a stake in the garden,

unused since the last time you needed it

to quench your thirst, after tilling the soil

around the strawberry bed.

A woodcutting bench lies next to

a fallen tree  that was intended for

next year’s wood supply.

The red and black mackinaw and cap

hang on hook inside the back door,

waiting for the hunter to stalk

the autumn woods.

It is in the silence of the woods

from which tall tales and stories

vibrate from familiar sites.

The Indians who are buried underneath

the large hemlock tree,

wisdom of Bathroom Billy,

farmer’s who created the pastures

and who’s fine workmanship created

the rock walls that frame their masterpiece.

Isolated walls covered with aging moss and lichen

symbolize the life of a man,

my dad, who once possessed the same feeling,

and love, like those before him, for nature,

the land, and the ancestors before him.

Your land, your sacred possession is a

testament to your children who once sat

and listened to the sounds of the distant brook,

or deer walking cautiously as subtle breezes,

or listening to private legends and tales.

You are now silent as those moments

Stored away forever in our memories.

Thankfully, we have inherited his wisdom

but it is the Indians of long ago, Bathroom Billy,

and the farmers who have inherited his footsteps,

his gentle manner, and made the legend of the land

ever larger.

 

It is now,

in the cool crisp November air,

the first anniversary of his death,

that I believe you have come to rest inside

a storybook, that you so carefully “wrote”

for us over the years.

You are now a part of the cast of characters

that comes alive in my thoughts and gives me

pride in my past and hope towards my future

and stories that will go on….

Now God keeps you wrapped in love for eternity.

Nancy Prouty March

Nov. 1985

Camping at Island Pond

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Island Pond

 

Dark cumulonimbus clouds

descend over the lake

pointed firs stand black

against the darkness

of the dawn.

A single loon

wails in the distance

calling to the coming night,

“All is at peace, all is calm

in this fading day.”

Reflections of light

from a cabin across the way

illuminating the gentle ripples

quietly tumbling onto

the vacant shore.

The fire crackles

sparks escape in darkness

the smell of pine or maple

relaxes the senses and

thoughts of sleep are eminent.

I Love A Good Paddle in the Rain

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I love a Good Paddle in the Rain

It was the first time I paddled in the rain

as mid morning showers swirled around

my kayak in concentric circles and

bounced off the hard surface of my kayak.

Breaking the silence of the cove, high in

the treetops a bald eagle warns his mate

of oncoming potential predators and she

swoops down

                        SWOOSH,

SWOOSH,

SWOOSH,

A full wing span cuts through the air delivering

her to a nest of branches and her two fledglings.

The rain picks up and I paddle to the edge and seek

refuge under an umbrella of hemlock branches.

In the distance I watch a mother loon carrying her

baby on her back.  Suddenly, the dad pops up from

the depths of the lake and joins them. They swim

and bob on the waves made by an aluminum boat

 piloted by two old fishing buddies.

As I make my way around a small island I hear

screeching from high above.  Eagles. I look behind me

 and I see the family of loons close by.

I worry about the loon chicks, will the eagles

decide to attack and swoop up the little one?

the male loon breaks its silence and sends

an alarm with its signature tremolo.

I make my way to the other side watching

painted turtles swimming through the water

as if they were paddling in an aquarium.  Every

so often partially submerged driftwood, , looks like

a mythological wingless dragon guarding the

edges of the lake and daring a paddler not

to come too close.

Yes, I like paddling in the rain.

July 2014 draft 1

There are Times When

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There Are Times When

By Nancy March

There are times when

A good book’s character

Keeps me up at night

Wondering …

There are times when

A song’s lyrics

Makes my heart pump with

Song …

There are times when

A painting’s details

Gives me pause and

Question…

There are times when

the hand of friendship

walks with me down the “highway”

Reassuring …

There are times when…

I have a lot of writing to post that is residing in my notebook.  Since the cancer I have many ups and downs and writing has been a saving grace.  I realized recently that quite possibly my life here on earth is short.  My mom and her mother died when they were 67.  That time is sneaking up on me and I want to share what has been a childhood of great memories and a life of ups and downs.  My life is marked with great sorrows as well. 

The following writings are a series of writing called Writing Towards Home.  I began these writings many years ago as an exercise  for a class I was taking on poetry, with my favorite poet/teacher, Georgia Heard. 

These are rough drafts and always in the process of revision and editing.

Home is

The Brook

Eagleville, Ct.

Home is the playground provided by the natural brook running through our

property.  It is the green/gray moss that pads my bare feet as I squat and

watch for speckled native brook trout about to tug on my line.  Other times it

is the coolness of the cold water spinning like a whirlpool wrapping itself

 around my ankles as I bend to catch a fish by its hind legs.  It’s about

damming it up and letting the water rise into a  pool deep enough to dunk

my long curly hair or float aimlessly on an inner tube kicking my feet and

sliding my fingers through the water.  On hot humid days we shared our

“spa” with our friends and neighbors.   Our imaginations run wild with ideas for a water game to keep us cool and entertained.

 In early spring ice clung to the edges of the brook like fragile brittle glass sitting on the edge of the shelf.   The water was too cold for bare feet but just right for kid sized waders .  April signaled my brother and I to grab our fishing poles and a can of worms and stand in the brook with hopes of catching sweet pink trout that we would gut, roll in cornbread, and fry in a cast iron skillet for dinner.  Later in the spring my dad would begin his ritual of planting a vegetable garden.  My brother and I dammed the brook close to the garden and waited for the yearly spawning of suckers  coming up stream.  We’d capture them in our nets and use them as fertilizer for the corn and pumpkins growing in the garden.

 The brook was where my first wildflower lessons with my dad began.  In the early spring yellow trout lilies bloomed along the banks of the brook.  Among the decaying tree branches and leaves jack-in-the-pulpits, scarlet trillium, blood roots, and lady slippers graced and framed the swollen banks of the brook.  Bright green skunk cabbage illuminated the stark brown ground beneath our feet.   The beauty of the colorful flowers and the cool, crisp, clean water seemed to be in direct contrast to the boundaries of the woodlands. 

 The brook was also a home to many unusual “pets”.  Endless water striders gliding over the water’s surface, crayfish lying beneath slippery rocks, and an occasional water snake sneaking around the water’s edge.  By far my favorites were the frogs and pollywogs that made our brook their home.  Mr. Croaker, my very large bullfrog, was  a playmate and confident until a large rain storm carried him away. 

The brook has been home - place of wonder, imagination, play, and life lessons for all seasons. It has become part of me.