Travelling Over Snow

Travelling Over Snow

by Cristy McGuinness

I snap the last buckle
Tightly in place
And get ready to head out
To the vast, white gleaming space.

The mountains stand tall
In all their glory;
Cloaked in fresh powdery air,
About to unfold the day’s story,

Ski poles drape around each wrist;
Ready to guide the way.
Sliding one foot in front of the other,
I descend for the first run of the day.

The wind charges at my face;
Watery eyes search and stare
As I fly down the trail that’s
Marked by a blue square.

My hips turn left,
But want to shift right
“Where did these moguls come from
And why is the lodge so far outta sight?”

Panic sets in and
Sucks away at my breath;
Half-way down the mountain
I am struck by images of death.

I spread my wings,
Close my eyes,
And glide in the sugary snow;
Freeing myself to the open blue skies.

The end is near
With people down below,
I sigh with relief
And finally start to slow.

(Cristy McGuinness is a Troubadour reader from Hooksett, NH)

The Tree and I

The Tree and I

by Donna Bee

A seed is planted
from which form the roots that
will determine its growth.

Its bark appears from under the earth
and is nourished with the warmth
of the sun and the cool of the rain.

And from its bark, fragile twigs
grow into mature branches, from
which grow fragile twigs.

It endures the heats of summer, the
frosts of winter, and the cools of autumn
and spring.

It will forever shed its old shapes
and take on the new.

Its growth is constant.

We are so much alike, you know,
the tree and I.

(Donna Bee is a Troubadour reader from Francestown, NH)

Survivalists

Survivalists

by Pamela MacBean

A bird feeder pregnant with sunflower seeds
spills over onto ripples of white
whispering over the glassy skin of snow.

Snow birds sway in naked branches
wrapped in swirls of icy breezes,
waiting for a peering cat
sitting on an icicle-fringed porch
to dash back into a warm house.

And as a door quickly opens, closes
the danger passes with a disappearing tail,
and upon a significant sign,
wings hug tiny bodies as they dive-bomb
from frosty tipped trees
to alight upon cold metal perches.
tussling, flapping, twittering,
scattering seeds on drifts below,
they fight for the right to exist another day.

(Pamela MacBean is a Troubadour reader from Dalton, NH)

Awaiting Spring

Awaiting Spring

by Peggy Perry

Under the March crescent moon
Blue-shadowed snow lies cold and deep
Silent forest shelters those who sleep
Random playful wind lifts and icy drift
And sends it floating to the
Soundless sky.

Motionless at the window, I think I see
There in the garden, beneath a white
Comforter, a vision of last summer’s plants
Dormant and waiting
And beneath the leafless trees
Creatures snugly dreaming, as I do
Of the warm March breeze
That will predictably surprise us
Tomorrow.

(Peggy Perry is a Troubadour reader from Freedom, NH)

The Guardian

The Guardian

by Charles Bria

Silhouetted by barren trees
Old stone walls adorn thee
Overgrown fields sway along
To a lone meadowlark song
Weary barns shadows ages fell
Whispers from that worn shell
A rusted farm plough stands
Guardian of a forsaken land

(Charles Bria is a Troubadour reader from Sanbornville, NH)

Stick Trees of New Hampshire

Stick Trees of New Hampshire

by Jaye Franchell

Stick trees, dark and barren
bold
Clustered, bravely bear
the cold.
Punctuate the snow.

Stick trees, enchanted
Beckon me – to
brave the frost
and with them be.
They strangely,
warm the soul.

Their stories told
reveal, unfold.
and world’s unseen
Faint whispering

Harken back to ancient fires
Holy groves, like sacred spires
Stick trees
primeval home.

(Jaye Franchell is a Troubadour reader from Albuquerque, NM)