by Miren

It’s winter and
the snow
is covering the city,
like hair on a
head…
if you use
   your imagination
you could build a
snow fort with a bed.
The lake is frozen
and great for skating
though it is cold
…it’s beautiful
…it’s snow
…snow
…snow.

by Miren Herbert

My granddaughter wrote this poem for me.  She wrote it as she traveled to my house and was looking at all the snow and frozen lakes.

With fresh eyes
   In the morning light,
I see the fog blanket
  was laid last night.

Gently laid to
   cover cattails
      and fallen logs
to hide the pond
   from moon and stars.

Laid so mice and frog
   could rest
till daylight’s flame
   would light the match
      to show us
         the rested tract.

I thought of her today
but it had been so long.
I was shaken for
I could not recall her name,
and tenth grade friends
cannot do much except be friends.

I was so naive
and shocked by her use,
appalled by the boys
who took her for free.
She told me …
but tenth grade friends
cannot do much.

She was lost in the wall.
A person unseen.
Her eyes were flat
and her hair was black.
The toll paid
in tenth grade

It scared me to think
that I would forget…
I was sadly naive,
but now I grieve…
She died long ago-
the toll extracted,
the fine exacted,
so tired and sad.

Her name was Anne.

If only tenth grade friends
could do more.

I had been reading something by Anne Lamont and suddenly remembered this friend from 10th grade.  But I couldn’t remember her name.  I remembered the layout of her house, being in her room, her talking about sex, but I couldn’t remember her name.  I began to panic and dug out high school yearbooks.  I feel like I must not forget her name.  She deserves at least that much.  She committed suicide about four years after graduation. 

Wise  seed pods on their stock
dried and dead
released of
silky seeds:
milk weed in the wind

The seed pod’s
bold beauty:
hard,  exposed,
waiting to hold the snow
waiting to hold the cold

What seasons
   are watched by milkweed
dispersed in the wind,
and gathered by the soil
waiting for the vagrant king

Photo by Kelly Herbert

the shimmering aurora
a celestial veil
held between
this earth and heaven

its presence felt
when birth is near
and pushed aside
as death appears

in this transcendent dance
the celestial garment
just waiting
to be touched

I saw a picture of the Northern Lights in Finland that has intrigued me.  When I first saw it, I looked at it for a long time and I still have difficulty putting it down.  I thank my friend, Sue, for sharing the picture and for helping me finish this poem.