Happy Valley

The brook is this mix of roar & hiss as if God
has managed to scalpel a section of tempest & clothespin it in
the woods Over There Always draped in the trees
while we eat white summer peaches from celadon bowls
while the sun bleaches & blue jay squawks score the maple, oak
birch and apple-treed sky with their oblique Scriabin musics.
Fifteen years since I have seen a real Fall
her deciduous burlesque, her glistering things sifting
on the old cider mill. A holy show.
I hold a wooden fragrance & a sodden mush of crushed
flowing apples in a cache and will never give it up.
The cardinal is the best bird because it is a red mark
on the blank snow amid the charcoal Twombly of maple, oak
birch and apple branches. Pines are green & faraway, don’ t figure.
My sister in spring is even prettier, her smile
the genuine quality of it undiminished in the many months
since I have been in Happy Valley. It roars and is constantly
in spate because it has its reasons spring being spring plus my visiting.