Ailsa Steinert

Grace Notes
Starlings billow over the bridge,
a black sail catching wind –
tension holds, edges flicker.

Milkweed tufts burst
from pods, fasten on grass
and sleeve. Seeds float silver.

Extravagant, the birch spills
coin. Two children pelt
across a wet street.

In such minor declarations,
afternoons deepen – leaves
nest in gutters,

birds flown, children gone –
my prayers shape tendrils,
grip the earth,

Portent
…there are more planets of earth size and possibility …
than people now on earth (Boston Globe)
The weight of air
purple on the inside
of breakers
waiting to fall.
Iron clouds move in,
spike the sea, crumple
peaks to whitecaps.
Before you turn inland,
the season rusted, dimmed,
touch the stone.

Imprint
Cold presses,
the ocean heaves.
Subdued, the breakers
crawl from underneath.

The marsh spikes ragged –
mottled snow. A branch
of pine cones caught
high in the bare oak.

The Parade Moves On
November crabapples, knotted
cord, red buttons, a few leaves
like gold epaulettes. The rest,
worn regalia cast to the floor.
Horns to stay silent until

after screens of snow,
bark will glisten, sun paw
the ground. Then, round the corner
tuned new and stepping high,
full dress again, the marching band.

Noli timere – Seamus Heaney

Around the bend the river widens, weighted with sun
and drying grass. I turn the canoe past a bush
of deadly nightshade, purple splashed gold. Crickets
wind their gears above the waning heatbugs.

September, like the sudden taste of wild grapes –
sweet, then sharp. The channel turns back
on itself. Wary, a muskrat slips the matted
bank, swims to feed on cattails.

Here, I stay my paddle, let the current gentle me,
gathering. The den beneath the surface opens upward
into chambers safe from fox and owl. Blind
and new,questions brood to ripen over years.

At the next loop, pines crowd the edge, roots
ragged. Further, at the yellow farmhouse on the hill,
a door slams, a man calls. No need for stopping
there, nor where I slide through narrows.

Returning, late for lunch, I step out in mud and leaves
past the landing stone. A chickadee dashes down.
I pull the boat over coarse sand, into the woods,
trudge uphill to the broad terrace of home.