Late December Mystery
Ascending the northeastern ridge of Guyot,
two men discovered post hole hoofprints
through the snow, sluffed powder slipping
away like leaden plumage or crushed limestone
through a quarry’s flute. They followed heavy
tracks for three hours, snowshoes holding
their boots aloft between frozen ground and light.
When they paused where wind cut drifts
across the saddle of the hill’s arch-backed gap,
exposed stone hid the passage of the mount
like ash consumed within a river’s froth.
Half a mile further on they began to find
saddlery bits and various tack like downy
feathers littering the trail, dark leather
wet from scuffs of slush, then one man
called out that he’d found crisp brass
sleigh bells shining in late December sun.
Late Frost
An uncle set up milk crates
and tobacco sticks, ran long
wires between post and barn
while three aunts draped
painter’s cloths, opened
bedsheets and fabric coverings,
shrouded over sprouted greens
and new shoots from a condition
warned but yet to transpire.
In the failing light breath rose
among their ghost garden,
the three sisters unspooling
muslin across the shorter
peach trees as defense against
the final fears of spring.
