My friend Steve Holt has sent me two poems for the season. You may find Steve elsewhere on this blog. His most recent book is A Tone Poem of Stones, from Finishing Line Press. What about Cinnamon Plum tea to go along with these poems?
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Christmas Card from Bold Camp Mountain
When the cold wind tapers
to a white birch whisper . . .
Three wild rabbits come out
on a clean white sheet of snow
To print the morning
paper with their paws.
Gift Boxes
Our father knew a man up Rockhouse Fork,
laid off from railroad work
one year and more, who fought hard-
scrabble field and gullied slope, bent
on keeping wife
and hungry children at his table.
Indian summer ended. Our mother packed
in cardboard grocery boxes
all our outgrown clothing, all
our hand-me-downs; in the cold
ahead of dawn, Dad delivered.
Never say a word, he said. Not one.
And now, as this winter evening dons
its tattered graying coat of snow, strange
youth I see in faded gabardines
and corduroys; thinning
soles of well worn shoes on pond ice
come skating back to me. Once more
I feel dubious fleeting
glances of those who wore our discards
down dark corridors at school decades ago.
Until this day I have not told
any living soul
about our parents’ great and secret love.
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