Winter Poets

I worshipped at your feet
before realizing poetry
can’t be lived on knees
can’t be frozen on tombstones
carved under new old england snow

where
ground is brittle
darkness the heaviest
lightest thing
to bury –

we wander and talk
but there is work to do
the ground frozen with words
while we line dressers and hatboxes
tell our horses to keep quiet.

Emily,
you taught me how
the word Heft feels
not just what it means, but
what do you expect from someone spending
all day watching blackbirds on white snow
little sharp songs longing for far away

Robert,
with hunters feet and
horseshoes and church
bells rung and ridden in woods
where paths are chosen so often
it becomes one’s nature to wander

Sylvia,
four small cute burdensome hands
grubbily pulling apron strings
a mind full of theses
and your husband’s office door closed
a life of hairpins faculty meetings
your past re-wiring
he never notices
how overcooked the thing is
and the children