MORNING TOUR IN VERMONT 

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        I 

Stretched all along the river's edge, an unending 
        border of reeds rises above the surface of its more 

shallow depths, miles of water weeds lively moving 
        with a chill wind.  The mass of broad-leaved grasses 

waves like a million quills in the quick current. 
        Despite this midwinter weather, the crackling spines 

of bare trees still bravely stand straight, their 
        splayed branches enabling morning sunlight to stream 

through, melting the glaze of night frost, 
        lifting a white gauze of fog from the floor of the forest. 

We follow the sure course of cascading rapids, 
        runoff flowing from those distant snow-capped crests, 

where a few slow clouds are now flowering 
        like a postcard snapshot, where last evening, as we had 

watched in awe, a feverish sky extinguished itself; 
        you swore you wanted to stay forever.  Descending 

toward the falls before the valley, we come across 
        a carcass—something so old the decaying residue 

of its brown body is almost indistinguishable 
        from the cold, barren ground all around it.  Suddenly 

uncertain, we are astounded to find our attention 
        drawn this long to a mere squirrel.  We're surprised 

to be bothered by an animal so small, so common 
        and, here, nearly featureless—though seemingly just 

another clump of earth, no more than a loose 
        mound of bones under tufts of fur, nothing to fear. 
 

        II 

Yet, as we continue past, we both know this not 
        to be the truth.  Once more, we're aware of endings, 

discern that although there doesn't appear to be 
        anything important about our discovery, perhaps later, 

changed, tired from these travels, lying 
        in fitful sleep, we will think of it and again dream 

of death.  Hesitant, as we approach a final 
        ridge on our return to the hotel, we notice the fragile 

sun has begun its climb, lost behind those 
        gathering clouds.  Still-distant houses in the village 

now blacken beneath a lowering ceiling, 
        their darkening rooftops strewn throughout lowland 

like burnt chips of bark scattered about 
        the bottom of a fire pit.  The day gone gray, already 

I realize why on this visit our joy for life 
        has seemed to slip away so easily.  Even in this 

withering light, I'm able to see that vast contrast 
        between the bright heights where we have been before 

and the dull contours of the path winding up 
        ahead.  Somehow, I know that if only at last I were 

honest,  I, too, would admit my desire to go 
        no farther, to never return.  If I could, I would always 

hold to this morningâs earliest image—you 
        and I at sunrise, alive in the perfect picture of a frozen 

landscape, both of us still listening to the gentle 
        clock-like ticking of iced limbs clicking in the wind. 
 
 

[ First appeared in Blueline]