Plummer’s Hollow – Page 4

March 23, 2023 by Dave Bonta

Fabulous

Today was a day for visions… though not necessarily a day for understanding. The light had a special quality to it, that early spring haziness.

It was a day bookended by thunderstorms. The temperature climbed into the low 60s.

A fire hydrant at the edge of town stood guard over a feral underground.

Near the crest of the ridge, I saw a tree eating a large rock.

I don’t like that someone did this but I can’t help but admire the tree’s response.

I’ve noticed this tree before, but not after a hard rain. Its eye of lichen really blazed forth, and its green suit of moss was fabulous.

The rain also accentuated the distinction between the two halves of this oak, one dead, the other very much alive. This too seems fabulous, in the specific sense that it reminds me of something out of a fable.

Lichens brighten in the rain. They open all their pores.

A dry strip of bark appears virtually lifeless in contrast to rain-soaked portions, where moss, algae and lichen have been revived.

But no one beats wood frogs for revivals. From suspended animation to full-on orgy. It boggles the mind.

March 21, 2023March 22, 2023 by Dave Bonta

Equinox

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

full sun but the sky’s
blue heart stays cold

as i pass the big rockslide
a wind-blown tree calls my name

just once
in my mother’s voice

i follow the ridge another mile
to the ephemeral ponds

frozen wood frog egg masses
glitter like nebulae in the dark water

and just beyond
the trees are raining grackles

with the sound of a vast
and rusty orchestra tuning up

i reach for my gloves
find the left one missing

the blackbirds are on all sides
landing on the ground
jostling in the treetops

lifting as if on a signal
from mob into synchronized flock

a great glossy wheel
here and gone

later at supper
my mother points out a black vulture
with its gray face

looking over my house
from a perch in a walnut tree

just then the spring
equinox arrives

i go off looking for
my lost winter glove

the sun makes its rendezvous
with the compass point

venus emerges
from hiding in plain sight
a barred owl calls

i follow the mountain
until it’s too dark to see

March 16, 2023March 16, 2023 by Dave Bonta

Weather or Not

cloud made of snow
the swirl and twirl of it

at night in a flashlight’s beam
like a swarm of souls

i’ve taken a break from breaking
news of bank runs

to stand on the porch and gaze
up into a well of darkness

cold little dagger-kisses
die on my cheek

the wind has come hissing
down from the ridgetops

and is getting into everything
i can hear it rummaging about

refusing to settle
as the snow does

or the dust indoors that clings
to my canted mirror

slowly burying
my image alive

March 10, 2023March 10, 2023 by Dave Bonta

Journeyman

in the morning mirror
the apparition of my old self

as skinny as i was forty years ago
but with white hair

and weird spots and scars
my backwards mouth grimaces

i return once more
to the base of a mountain

so called because it’s too long
and skinny to be a hill

there’s no summit
just the end of a ridge

rising from the river
shouldering the railroad and a highway

i begin again on a steep path
deep in dry leaves

a carolina wren choruses
from an old cellar hole

tiredness vanishes
part-way up

the mountain gives strength
takes deep breaths of wind

a few tree shadows still shelter
patches of snow

the first butterfly’s black velvet
wings ease open

a mourning cloak
soaking up the sun

the sky goes from clear
to blue au lait

the ground from high gloss
to dull tarnish

the ridgeline beckons for miles
open-ended

step by careful step
through the rocks

March 5, 2023 by Dave Bonta

In Gloom

the mountain looks old today
under its thin blanket of snow

valley sounds vanish
in a hush of wind

shadows sharpen
only to wink out

one tall black cherry
split open along a twist

groans and mutters
like a humpbacked whale

between the clouds
the unobtainable abyss

all the while the half-
thawed earth is surfacing

my feet start to slide on slush
and continue into mud

later a gravid moon
brings light without heat

one way to evade the grim
machinery of the stars

March 3, 2023 by Dave Bonta

Wintry Mix

drab brown woods:
one white mote floats down

then all at once the sky extends
her whole milky tongue

wet snow on my umbrella
whispers of collapse

evergreen woodferns fade
into fern-shaped shrouds

a pileated woodpecker’s laughter
is muffled by fog

all his improvements to a tree
must be getting whited out

everyone gets plastered
even the young pole timber

a few wood frogs still float
between the reflections of trees

as the dark pool fattens
on clumps of cloud

February 10, 2023 by Dave Bonta

Perennial

summer always ends
on a wednesday in my head

my half-baked braincase
buzzing like a timber rattler

winter comes in its own time
to whomever needs it most

densely furred
full of absence

imagine being perennial as a tree
regrowing sex organs every year

the oaks i walked among today
were characters in a no-movie

each leaning into their role
but who hid the script

we swayed in the wind
which brought distant cries

this might be a horror scene
that’s the trouble with scripts

on a wednesday the first beech bark disease
on the mountain stopped me cold

smooth gray bark broken out
in pointillist rashes

this mountain’s only gold
is fool’s gold

a full moon
through the trees

blinking on and off
as clouds scud past

so much can go wrong
between one tree and the next

this might be the year
for bird flu or world war three

but summer always ends
on a wednesday

February 3, 2023February 3, 2023 by Dave Bonta

Fallow

fallow ground risen
on stilts of ice

how fun to crunch
in new winter boots

through a snow squall
the sun’s inflorescent glow

drawing me on with its
mirage of comfort

to find that fabled spot
out of the wind

January 28, 2023January 28, 2023 by Dave Bonta

The Idea of Wallace Stevens in Plummer’s Hollow

reading in the woods
book open to the sky

wandering snowflakes
vanish into the text

which is after all
mostly white space

something like a cloud
downloading more cloud

a woodpecker taps
a dead tree creaks in the wind

a hunter’s trail camera
wears a cap of snow

i practice solitude
one day at a time

for how in the holy
hell of other people

could grief still surface
its ancient ice

where in the limbo
of this floating world

could a bear blank as death
still find footing

how in god’s name
is anyone not yet numb

i close the book to preserve
its idea of order

from all these freelance
asterisks and daggers

untamed annotation leading
nowhere but here

January 19, 2023 by Dave Bonta

Sacerdotal

the maple with a double helix
of poison ivy succubi

its branches that are not its branches
just as naked now

the beech with a hidden hollow
hoarding meltwater

skinny stalks in the meadow
fern tangles reduced to ribs

winter makes it easy to see
and miss the missing

but trees can shine
in an icy blue depth of sky

and church bells from town
remind me it’s sunday

so i walk among ridgetop oaks
as if through a cathedral

who can resist a bit
of sabbath-day LARPing

to my usual seat
on a stack of flat rocks

cue a coyote trotting in
from the other direction

who stops 50 feet away
and gazes past me

flag of breath curling up
into the sunlight

and takes a few more steps
as i reach for my phone

a flash of sun from
the reflective case

and coyote is disappearing down-ridge
tail streaming behind

a lapse in faith
i instantly regret

my consumer’s impulse to capture
to have and to hold

whatever sacrament may exist
apart from the encounter itself

i think of those who will never
see a carnivore in the wild

or walk in a true forest
or visit the ocean

too poor or too much
in the middle of things

either way a poverty
that should appall us

i finish my tea
begin to feel a kind of warmth

a split in the heartwood
of an old black cherry tree

opens with a ratchety cry
wound like a sideways mouth

taking all
the wind’s calls

no room for piety in this hymnal
the earth has teeth