Two rings sit
On warm black granite
Bathed in Sunday morning sunlight.
What drama played out
Under cover of darkness—
A broken heart,
A broken dream?
And why not toss those rings
Into the fountain
To symbolize
The end,
A new beginning?
Such curiosity
Would not be
Provoked
By a pair of sneakers,
Or a scarf,
There would be
No need
To recreate the story.
But the ghost
Of Saturday night
Lingers in the air
Like perfume.
Low slow trill
Fainter by the day
This is what the cricket tells me . . .
Earth is tilting away from the sun,
The cold breeze raising goosebumps
Whispers, winter.
Leaves are moldering on the lawn,
The goldfinch has shed his sunflower vest
And donned a coat of mourning.
Oak is the last man standing,
Thatched in stiff brown.
This is what the cricket tells me . . .
The cornfields are stubble-ribbed,
Fine stopovers for flocks of geese
That drift down in squawking hordes
To feast on farmers’ leftovers.
Stalks have withered in pumpkin fields
Leaving squat orange Jack-o-lanterns
Ripe for carving.
This is what cricket tells me . . .
Frost is on the way.
That row of late-sown lettuce—
Waste of time—
Pick the Swiss chard now
Before it freezes.
Pull the rattling bean husks off the vine;
Next year’s seeds are dry.
This is what cricket tells me . . .
The Red-Tailed Hawk
Has caught a mouse,
One of this summer’s brood,
And devoured it in one gulp.
She knows, too
The season is gathering up her skirts
To take one last curtsey.
This is what the cricket tells me.
Silver birch
No more,
Scrolls of papery bark
Sloughed off like dead skin.
Roots so deep
They cradle half the hilltop
Can’t hold you there forever.
Already you are worm meat,
A buffet for woodborers and fungi
A footstool for moss and lichen.
Yet you will linger
In my memories.
Two decades of family photos
Have graced your low-slung bough—
Seasons changing,
Inexorable growth and decline.
Like a beloved grandparent
You share with us
The passage of time.
Autumn graveyard
Creeping brambles
Tawny grasses
Half obscuring
Weathered tombstones
Scudding cumulus
Burst of sunshine
Lighting death dates
Year, month, and day
Hilltop graveyard
One room schoolhouse
Inn and churchyard
Hamlet spread out
Down below
Settlers’ green bones
Slowly seeping
Through the soil
They called their own
Old-world graveyard
Back to nature
All must follow
Feeding roots of
Oak and maple
Sinking softly
Joined in union
Spirits rising
Salt of the earth
There is an old graveyard near my home. It sits atop a hill surrounded by a hamlet dating back to the 18th century. The one room schoolhouse and church are a stone’s throw away. The parsonage, inn, and farmhouses are spread out at the foot of the hill. A dull school child could watch the gravedigger at work across the road. The journey from farmhouse, to church, to graveyard—a small triangle.
Many of the tombstones have been wiped clean by wind and rain. Those that are legible show a curiosity: Death dates meticulously recorded to the month and day, but no birth dates. The school mistress would only have to lead her pupils in a straggly line across the road and up the hill to impart a math lesson: If Mr. Walling died on March 30th, 1860, aged seventy-five years, eight months and fifteen days, on what day was he born?
The essence of nature
Is balance
There is no void
Nature rushes in
All feathers and leaves
Sharp teeth and bones
A richly woven tapestry
To fill the senses.
And what part do I play
In this landscape?
A witness—
Just that.
I am a child of this earth.
Staunch workhorse
Solid, dependable
Never glamorous or racy
Trundling through seasons
Year after year.
Drawing the plough
Harrowing the furrow
Dragging the hay rake
Combustion engine
Pumping away.
Red Farmall
Green John Deere
Loyalties, generations deep
Billowing exhaust
Into thin morning air.
Slow-moving beast
Taking on earthy hues
Sinking into the acreage
Overcome by time
Finally idled.
New arrival
On the doorstep
Small black cat.
Wheezing, runny eyes
Ear mites and worms
Small black cat
Vet looks gloomy
Hope not proffered
Small black cat
Hand-fed, caressed
Cradled in laps
Small black cat
Feisty young ‘un
Up and at it
Small black cat
Pouncing lessons
Hearts won, much fun
Small black cat.
No smell announces the preparation of a meal better than the rich, sweet aroma of sautéing onions. It’s a humble staple of my pantry that I couldn’t do without. Luckily, I live in an area famous for its onions. I keep a special pair of blue swim goggles in my kitchen drawer for chopping the extremely pungent variety that grow in our region of New York State. Known as the Black Dirt, the fertile soil—a result of an ancient glacial lake—is rich in organic matter and sulfur. 
The latter gives our local onions their intense flavor and earns them a spot in farmer’s markets and supermarkets all over the Northeast.
Starting in April armies of bright green shoots march across the black dirt. By July, they’re standing tall. And in August the stalks wilt, their purpose served.
In September the heady scent of onions pervades the air and the onion crates are stacked high in the fields, waiting to be stored or transported to market.
You make us cry without hurting us.
I have praised everything that exists,
but to me, onion, you are
more beautiful than a bird
of dazzling feathers,
heavenly globe, platinum goblet,
unmoving dance
of the snowy anemone
and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.
Cardboard box lunch on the beach:
Limp sandwiches, bruised apples, melted chocolate bars.
Fine grit lodged between our teeth at every bite,
Seagulls swooping in for the crusts.
A backdrop of frenzied whitecaps,
Larksong tossed skyward,
And a ripe aroma
Of dead crab and fermenting seaweed
Wafted our way.
The culprit?
Tugging at our shirts,
Slapping strands of hair against our cheeks,
Raising goose bumps on our legs,
Hurling sand in our eyes,
Encrusting us with a film of sea salt,
Wind—ever present picnic friend.
Curtains of rain
Sweeping across the bay,
The first tell-tale spots on the slate.
Then all in a rush
Cloudburst!
Mini water bombs hurtling against the roof
Snare drum on the windowpane.
Sixty seconds later
Nothing but drip, drip, drip.
One of the first things that comes to mind when I think of Ireland is rain. It is after all what earns the country its distinctive reputation as a land of fifty shades of green. And there are nearly as many kinds of rain, from the “soft day” mizzle that gently coats you in a film of moisture, to the driving curtains of water that sweep across the landscape and drench you in seconds. While in November a wet day can be an unrelenting downpour, in July a cloudburst often lasts less than a minute. As the familiar saying in Ireland goes, If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.
Melissa Shaw-Smith 