The Four Seasons of a Child

Winter

Rural Route 3
where I grew up 
is gone now,
except in words.

They fall through memory 
like old snow
for those who know 
the telltale carving sound  
of a sharp blade 
on blood-black ice in the dark, 
that announces, 
as sure as your next breath, 
a puck-crack on the boards.

Or how to sit 
panting hard in the frosty air 
to chop the darkest hole  
with a single skate-heel arc,
then kneel, 
with new-invented holy words 
and burning lips, to suck 
the whole instreaking river up.

Mom said
that could freeze an over-heated heart.  

But she didn’t know -
death is no price at all for a thirsty boy,
compared to bed.

Spring

At melting time we fell
down the tumbleslippery 
sweet and muddy hills, all scraped 
from chasing victory,
or maybe vengeance, 
and laughed along  
the heartless rushing dance
and danger smell of wild floods
we knew could suck you under, 
Dad said. 

And if you’re lucky, 
someone by chance  
a mile from here, 
will find you dead, 
and spinning face down,   
in your own private pool. 

And that was enough to stop us 
from ever wanting children.

Summer

Always came too late
though just in time for sour green apples
and purloined peaches
sucked chin-dripping sweet
through fuzz that made it hard to concentrate
on the real work of braving things, 
like dry summer thistle stings
and other daily tests 
designed to turn us into men, 

and earn the right 
to brush, by plan or accident, 
against the pungent loins
of girls who laughed
to send us down the ladder
of our momentary sorrow.

But we were warrior kings, 
and girls had no lasting meaning
for boys with capes, and wings 
made of old sheets, 
and bow and arrow, 
and sapling, 
spear-sharp to fling
in barefoot majesty,
at anything that moved
before tomorrow.

Autumn

Meant the end 
of  milkweed parachutes,
drifting in still air,
down to the valley of nowhere.

And all too soon,
a prison of teachers, 
and boots.

Then frosty-fingered death,
came once again
without permission, to bend 
the swooning grass of summer, 
and laugh
at the burning of our breath.

Meant the early drop
of darkening dew,
and chewy candies pulling
at our fiercely eager teeth,
in sweet and sour pleasure,
snatched with deepest panic 
from a black witch treasure. 
 
Meant somersault 
from an old fence-rail,
into golden leaves
and buried girls,
who prayed to be found
by the only boy
who was hiding still
from the day’s last tag, 
and the happy wag
of a stiff dog tail.