Winter in Old Town, Maine: 2 Poems

These revised poems Copyright © 2010 by Michael Smetzer


Sunday Morning, January 1
Outside the drizzle finds oak rags
        solemn on their limbs,
and sets against the radio hymns
        its own rough-measured drops.
The toaster pops its little plume
        that lingers as I drip and stop
the honey spout, sweet almost-lips
        I circle with my finger.

(first published in Mostly Maine)

Spring Comes to Old Town, Maine
The March rain is colder growing,
snow will fall on ice tonight.
Summer thoughts are huddled low in
nests of lint with summer’s mice.
Who will sing cuccu, cuccu?
Old panes cackle, house beams buckle,
melt waters freeze below the spouts.
Snow squalls dance with bones of maple
as this gray equinox blacks out.
And no one sings cuccu, cuccu.

(first published in Mostly Maine)


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