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O little moon !
Peeking through naked branches
Hanging in the inky sky
Did I ever tell you
What magic you bring, what mystery?
Comforting me with your consistency
There you are again
Lending patience lending permanence
Reminding me of those nights (O those nights!)
Maybe diffused behind the softness of cloud
Or ringed by a circle of crystals.
Nights when it seemed like sacrilege to sleep!
Instead...wander down the road!
Breathe in the sweetness of willows waking for Spring
Renewing all possibilities!
Dance at the Canyon Creek Schoolhouse
How sweet the Spring evening!
Open wide the doors of the one-room schoolhouse!
Gather on the grass for a potluck picnic,
air scented with lilacs and apple blossoms.
Cottonwood fluffs drift by like snowflakes.
Old metal merry-go-round revolves in brand-new grasses,
spinning Dustin’s little boys
hanging on like baby monkeys.
Round and round, giddy on eternity!
Festive lights beckon dancers to the hardwood floor
shyness set aside, pairs anticipating.
The old time string band settles in a semi-circle
tuned up, ready…
waiting for the caller’s signal…
The music begins!
Right hand star, do-si-do,
Swing that gal, promenade home.
Young Oliver dances with exuberance,
flinging skinny limbs every direction the music carries them!
Light and music spill in shafts
into the Spring dusk.
These old fiddle tunes!
Older than the schoolhouse, played for centuries with heart and soul,
telling stories of magical nights long ago
when eyes, hands, and smiles linked dancers,
sparked romances that revolved into new generations
circling circling into the future
locking arms with earth, stars,
galaxies and beyond…
while time seems to stand still.
Last waltz, pack up
Lights off, bar the door, hook the chain
The old building now quiet
Ready for the next occasion when
people will happily gather, forget life’s demands,
and glide hop fling swing
the Spring night away.
Sounds of This Snowmass Summer
Upstairs porch, warm
night with calming crickets
and the soothing patter
of sprinkler drops on glad leaves.
The dogs sing with the coyotes
Weaving their voices high and low, sharing stories.
Do you wonder: Where are the wuthering snipes
whose wings graced our summer dusks
so many years?
Across the smoky valley
the monastery’s morning bells
to revere and welcome
each new day.
Listen! Can you hear the chortling call of cranes
seeking the haven of willow-hidden ponds
in the broad basin of hay fields ready
And now, real rain after many weeks of drought..
Impossible and wondrous.
Coursing in rivulets down the metal roof.
Plinking pattering into the waiting buckets, basins, rain barrels.
Damping down the dust and ash of the fire-torn earth.
Refreshing and reviving every living thing.
Renewing the hope we always hold in our hearts.
This Bright Night
This bright night is no less luring
than the moonlit nights of days gone by
that beckoned so beseechingly
we had no choice but to let ourselves be drawn out into it
to schuss so silently down snowy hills
savoring the magic, hoping to remember every single thing.
This bright night is no less luring!
A huge ring of ice crystals encircles the December moon
foretelling the snowstorm soon to come!
No matter how many years have passed
the excitement is still there, same as in childhood
when we could actually smell the snow coming, remember?
Tonight’s cold is no colder than the other nights, maybe warmer.
So what is my excuse for not strapping on my boots, gaiters, skis
layering leggings, muffling my mouth,
finding my double mitts
donning both hat and hood
buffered by down like a fluffed-up bird?
Wimping out, you say?
That’s right! Sad but true!
maybe tomorrow night!
Poetry By Molly Child
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