Margaret_Little_Poetry_PAGE

Selections From The Works of

The Spring

    Not far from where the house was,
    the hills hollow down to
         a wet weather spring fed by
              November rains or
              snow melt soaking in April through
                   spoil banks of the strip mine.
    Silted in, covered by leaves smelling of
    sunless places, brown as if
    they had never been anything but dead.
    I could brush those leaves away,
         dig my hands into muck and sand,
         let the water free,
              drink when it clears.
    I stand here
    wrapped against autumn chill,
    looking down into a pool
    that lies somewhere beneath the thin scar of
         a handful of seasons.
    Why should I tear the tissue open again?
    I know the taste of that water.

The Mystery

I stayed to see the night come down along
the wood side of the meadow and
spread across the grass,
oozing dew.
I thought some mystery might make itself known
in half light and creeping shadow,
when every tree becomes its shade.
Wispy, drifting ground fog curled along
the valley until every form but
mine seemed floating.
Whatever it was I waited for
seemed waiting too,
for me to go.
I saw, beyond the apple tree,
house light go on.
Dark got only darker then, so
I came on home.
Inside,
my night-accustomed eyes in
sudden light
saw all familiarity made new,
as if what I had sought out there
was here revealed, with you.
Reflections deep out of old brass and
cherry wood,
low gleam across the kitchen tile,
and as if you knew
where I had been,
your smile.

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