Susannah's Family Pages: Poetry: Three Seasons

Three Seasons

October

g etting wood for winter james and
marcos up hill working philip grumbling
chain saws rrrmm rrrmmm
rrmmmmmmmmm trees crackling
falling smell of mold dying leaves
sawdust and oil yellow and brown green
cedar puffballs nutty when they fry
stomp on them to see mustardy spores
fly boys shout timber watch it this is fun
in kitchen they will all be hungry butter
and home-baked bread wood oven keep
fire going alder is good cedar for starters
cottonwood is mostly water logs bucked
up split with axe in barnyard with goose
looking on and hissing crack clunk pile
wood new logs rolling down hill with
boys running alongside stop them
angling into creekbed pebbles rattling on
trail good stew lots of onion big chunks
of carrot gravy soaking into steaming
bread boys jackets steaming by stove in
winter sit by fire filing teeth on chain
saws oily engine parts on living room
floor off rug please! kettle sings
cottonwood behind stove sizzles never
dry floor of woodshed deep in chips
crumbled bark neat piles of wood angled
up at ends two rows four six eight
enough we hope head-high smelling of
pitch bark once cottonwood is dry no
good anyhow you want a log to hold heat
all night burned away to glowing embers
to start morning's fire add cedar kindling
dry pitchy armload of alder round pieces
split pine hot fire quick to warm whole
house to dress by to boil water for tea to
perk coffee to fry eggs big chunks slow
burners couple of logs frozen outside
house toasty smelling of fire to come
home to big pot of hot water stew pot on
back beans or lentils or good beef broth
whole house warm and fragrant and dry

ŠSusannah Anderson, '98
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Warm Weather Haikus

White kitten sleeping
glossy crescent in a bowl
like bread dough rising.

My door stands open,
invites the summer breezes.
Mosquitoes enter.

Six lanes of traffic
a thousand tailpipes belching-
Birds go on singing.

Trapped in the mall,
a bumblebee ignores
pink plastic flowers.

On the roof, sunburned,
melting man nails cedar shakes--
They will shed the snow.

Scarlet runner beans
twist, reaching for fresh toeholds
above the sunflowers.

I grow zucchini
by the garden gate-- handy
to the compost pile.

ŠSusannah Anderson, '98
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ON (not) STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

If Robert Frost were here today
He'd never think of things to say.
He'd drive a Chevvy pickup truck,
And have a loan and bills to pay.

On highways slick with slush and muck,
He'd be out hustling for a buck.
When snow on woodlots turned to sleet,
He'd grind his gears and curse his luck.

He'd write no poems with the beat
Of faithful Dobbin's clopping feet.
His lines would purr along like a well-oiled engine, only stopping for a
light.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But Frost would have a job to keep,
And miles to go on six hours' sleep.
And miles to go on six hours' sleep..

ŠSusannah Anderson, '96

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