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Three Poems for Winter
Dark-eyed junco (image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)
Whittier in the Woods
Making cornbread during a storm,
Which dropped a foot of snow on us,
I saw the actual John Greenleaf
In a wide-brimmed hat step from the woods
Behind our house, his bushy beard icicled.
When I waved, he raised a long stick,
And headed downtown to climb back into his
Mural near the hemp store on Main Street.
After Groundhog Day
Dark-eyed juncos feast on sunflower seeds
In a dinged-up metal serving tray
On our balcony this sub-zero morning,
Alone for moments between visits by
Sparrows, starlings, mourning doves
The color of light chocolate milk, and robust
Blue jays, fans of half peanuts in the spread.
This is day two of the epic Arctic freeze,
Generational, say TV weather talkers,
But still nothing like 68 below in Alaska felt
By Francis who now winters in Maine for relief.
Yesterday, he lasted two blocks with Murphy-
The-dog before hustling back to his kitchen.
Minus-68 in Fairbanks had bloodied his nose
Each time he stuck it outside the back door.
Here, we slept with one ear open, worried
The wind would again knock out power,
But we got lucky, the heat purring
All night and into the cold gray dawn.
Where Do the Deer Go?
They don’t come here to perform for us
Even though we become their audience.
What do they do the rest of the day,
Stand around, walk slowly, chew leaves,
And drink from a brook in the woods?
Bend narrow knees and lie in the shade?
We see them by twos and fours, late day,
Sometimes by sixes or eights, emerging
From a tree line two football fields
Away on this slope that was a ski run.
From where we stand, we can’t hear them
If they talk to each other in their own way.
The deer sample the grass and petals
And then slide back into the forest
At the northern goal line of the hill,
The upturned white tails filtering back to
Where they came from. I shouldn’t worry
About their future or how many ticks
They carry, which is none of my business,
And there’s nothing I can do about.
(c) 2025 by Paul Marion
“After Groundhog Day” and “Where Do the Deer Go?” first appeared in the literary magazine Cholla Needles 78 in southeastern California. The 2023 issue was edited by poet and artist Juan Delgado.
As New England as Whittier himself. Frost wrote about “the power of standing still,” and this is what I feel as I absorb these winter images: the miracle of everyday New England and by extension, the world.
Merci Paul. You contribute to keeping poetry alive and relevant in this nanosecond world. We verse-lovers are grateful.
Your three works brought to mind the rondeau by medieval poet Charles D’Orléans (1394-1465), loosely translated and modernized below by Michael R. Burch:
“The year lays down his mantle cold
of wind, chill rain and bitter air,
and now goes clad in clothes of gold
of smiling suns and seasons fair,
while birds and beasts of wood and fold
now with each cry and song declare:
“The year lays down his mantle cold!”
All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled,
now pleasant summer livery wear
with silver beads embroidered where
the world puts off its raiment old.
The year lays down his mantle cold.”
The original in French:
“Le temps a laissé son manteau
De vent, de froidure et de pluie,
Et s’est vêtu de broderie,
De soleil luisant, clair et beau.
Il n’y a bête ni oiseau
Qu’en son jargon ne chante ou crie:
Le temps a laissé son manteau
De vent, de froidure et de pluie.
Rivière, fontaine et ruisseau
Portent en livrée jolie,
Gouttes d’argent d’orfèvrerie;
Chacun s’habille de nouveau:
Le temps a laissé son manteau.”
To fellow writers Steve and Louise for their kind comments on my poems: thank you. It means a lot to hear from readers, especially with more than a “Like,” although a “Like” online is as good as a nod and welcome too. “The power of standing still” (Frost) is a notion I will hold onto. To have J G Whittier and Charles D’Orléans (of the 1400s no less) mentioned in connection with these poems adds unexpected value to the responses. I should tell Louise that I was born in Lowell’s St Joseph Hospital where many of the French Canadians of my time were born and was brought home to Orleans Street in the Centralville neighborhood–so there’s my link, if I stretch it, to Charles the rondeau poet.