Does everyone love the seasons as much as a New Englander does?
When I was in elementary school I wrote a poem called, “The War of Winter” and submitted it to a contest where it received honorable mention. I loved that poem. I wish I still had it... I guess it is a little funny that I regard the height of my literary career to be 2nd grade. But don’t worry I haven’t given up writing poems about the seasons. I mean, I am a New Englander after all.
This is a poem some of my favorite memories from childhood. I wrote it as an undergraduate but that I still return and tinker with it every fall.
Opening Night begins
When it is too dark to haul anymore.
Once a cord of wood is stacked,
The man removes his splintered gloves,
And slaps the wood chips
The dispossessed spiders
Who rearrange themselves within the logs.
The moon polishes the axe,
At last, he waxes
His philosophical introduction.
The stump sings ballads,
The moan of mushrooms
Mingled with decomposing leaves
Applause from squirrels,
Seated in the skunk cabbage,
Rises to the box seats.
From a fire lit window, I call
As the curtain of snow falls.