Aeolus

by Rose Kowaliw

The wind licked my face
a thousand names upon his tongue
whispering hauntingly
as he passed – I reached for one.
(Rose Kowaliw is a Troubadour reader from Swanzey, NH)

Autumn Evolution

by Melissa Rossetti

The first messengers arrive long before the calendar decrees.
They are welcomed by most, mourned by a few.
The leaves and apples share the same colors.
They are always brightest before they’re gone.
The nights give you a cool chill,
nothing that a simple sweatshirt or sweetheart can’t cure.
Fireplaces replace fans.
Sweat becomes sweater.
Cookouts and camping out are forsaken for hayrides and half time.
Pumpkins usurp tomatoes as the farm stand vegetable Du Jour.
Orange is everywhere, so is chocolate.
The hues of Halloween mute themselves for the day of thanks then disappear altogether
into the bold crimson and pine strokes heralding the vivid fanfare
that is Christmas.
(Melissa Rossetti is a Troubadour reader from Chester, NH)

When I Was Young

by Paulette Hanson

Sometimes it’s difficult to claim childhood memories, although they can create smiles where there once was a frown. Of my grandmother Francoeur there are many. Many little things she did made such an impression on who I became later in life. I remember spending a lot of time with her. Many mornings she would ask me to bring in the milk that was delivered. Two bottles that were placed in an aluminum box on the front porch. Still in my night clothes, shivering as my feet touched the cold porch boards damp from a late evening shower, I would scurry quickly, close the door, and smile so proudly as I delivered fresh milk to the kitchen table.

My grandmother always seemed to know the right things to say, things that a child needs to hear. She would say, “Good job. Thank you for being careful not to break the bottles.” “Mémère,” I asked. “Why is there a line in the milk?” She quickly explained that as the milk sat in the bottles the cream in the milk would separate and flow to the top. “All the cream is in the first couple of inches and that’s why Mémère shakes the bottle before opening it,” she said. I thought about what a wonderful treat it would be if I could taste the cream, so I made that request.

My grandmother paused for awhile, the look on her face gentle and kind. She smiled. I’m sure she could see the innocence in me when she responded, “I really shouldn’t, but, just this once, you may have the cream before I mix it.” As I slurped it from a spoon, the taste so divine, my grandmother touched my head and smiled. Maybe she knew that morning would become such a fond memory of mine. Thank you Mémère.
(Paulette Hanson is a Troubadour reader from Concord, NH)