More Poetry by Robert R. Woods

February, 1, 2013 

  I've worked on this piece on and off for over a year... STILL not sure I got it right! But that's the way it goes, right? Work on it as much as you can then send it out into the world... Hee! It's not like anyone will read it here.

 

Seasonal Change

 

I Autumn

Quietly waits the old elm tree. Her branches black stretching

out so desperately, searching  for a bit of summer breeze .

Yes, she dreams of warmer days when her leaves thrived,

those spring days when her leaves alive muttered rain, and

thunderstorms lit the sky afire. So long ago, that time before.

Now the winter crows arrive and peck the scaly bark from her

thighs, stark naked and alone, she is, to face the gloom to come.

II Fall

What? Across the footbridge? This time a year? Quite hazardous

a walk, you know? It’s become nothing more than a cold grave for

autumn leaves, broken tree branches and patches of treacherous

black ice, which forces heroic fools like you and  me (who pay very

little attention to the weatherman’s predictions) to step cautiously

across its splintered face. When the seasons change, we become

suspicious, superstitious, wary of the very ground beneath our feet;

as the landscape shifts so must we. A heavy coat tugged tight around

me, wool cap, thick gloves… makes difficult my ability to touch, to feel

your face. But no worries. Soon we’ll be at that small café near Bridge St.

it smells of used books, freshly baked bread, the harsh aroma of hickory

chips blazing in a wood burning  stove…and that other smell which neither

one of us has of yet identified. At last we can shed our bulky, outer skins,

leave them toasting on that rickety coat rack and sooth ourselves with

coffee (for me) and tea (for you)and balmy conversations about spring

flowers and summer moons, and that short but happy trip we took last

year To the Gulf of Mexico. We can pretend (if only for a little while)

that Christmas isn’t just around the corner, that soon that old bridge

won’t all together disappear beneath the frozen snow.

III Winter

My old  truck is far more excited about sliding down

the icy road that leads to town than I am. And why not?

Its fossil-fueled engine—yes, yes, I know, you always say,

“An electric car would work better!”— keeps it warm while I

shivered in the cab ‘cause the heater never works... except

for summers. “But,” you always joke, “our love is such a

passionate thing!” Perhaps that’s true… or at least, that cheap

 thrill that’s just obsessive enough to keep the icicles from

forming on my hands as I swerve, and skid, and slide my way

toward the closest grocery store just to buy a fucking quart of milk

for your morning tea. And yes, there’s something romantic about

the thought of you wrapping me up in that huge quilt you made,

serving me sips of hot of cocoa from my favorite clay cup,

allowing me to sneak a few cigarettes and a warm kiss or two

while I wait for my frozen feet to thaw. Yes, that would be nice

If by chance I make home… alive.

rrw o1-28-13