on the day that february decided to be july

on the day that february decided to be july

i drive k and e to the train for their adventure south just as the sun is

i drive home from the train and thread my way through the morning mist

i arrive home to empty the bucket of maple sap from the tree in the yard into a pot on the wood stove (still unlit) (too warm)-which makes five pots of varying sizes- all full to the brim with maple sap, waiting. to boil.

i put on leggings and sneakers and run around the block because it is already almost warm enough for a t shirt, and i see j who is also running, so we run together for five minutes.

we drink maple sap in the open doorway.

all before breakfast.

the red winged blackbirds come out and I see them in the garden and the air is thick with shorts and tank tops and rushing river melt.

i press send on the seed order for the plants i’ll tend in the spring.

the chunks of ice shrink in the shade.

i go to bed before the stove is ever lit.

the cooking pots of sap will wait for tomorrow, when we light a fire, when it is winter again.

in their reflective gear

when i fall 5 times (we are counting) (not a contest) in between
walking up and down the mountain
because of how shoes slip on ice disguised under snow

when t taps on two white pines at the
almost bottom of the mountain,
at the edge of my favorite swim spot north of northampton
and listens to their notes,
announcing them to be a major

when i am saying goodbye to k and e as they’re leaving the house in their reflective gear and bicycle helmets around 7:30pm meanwhile i’m wearing my hooded blue sweatshirt and striped underwear mindlessly playing small notes on the piano, but after the door shuts, i press my foot against the pedal and revel in loud dissonance.

between rain

the cusp between rain and snow

the cusp between 26 and 27
(years) (old)

the cusp between bedrooms (the one I have now, and the one at the top of the stairs with a pink carpet that is recently empty, where i am camping out tonight)

the core of an apple, russet colored, on my empty plate

the quill of a porcupine, sitting on my shelf after our long day of tracking through the woods, which finally led us right up to its den in an abandoned culvert, in a stream, in a valley in the stand of hemlocks, and right up to its face staring back at us from deep inside the long dark tunnel after we shone a flashlight down it to see what we could see.