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Poem
There was something spectacular
about a winter, long and hard,
on the Miles River.
Some days will never be the same.

Greying skies, heavy hung
with crystal burdens
of the wind, and air. Twenty above,
after sunset, zero.

And the snow was the problem
of every man of driving age
with responsibility. His children 
were busy getting ready.

And getting ready! The flurry 
of wool, and the long john-ed cotton.
A long and hearty walk ahead, river bound,
passing ponds along the way...

A pair of skates, tied together, 
a knitted cap and a smile
crossed the frosted fields, the puddled
slush and slurry, hurried

to gather like the feathered geese
who gathered 
on the ice inside a frozen cove,
a forgotten day one January.

And the town of Saint Michaels:
a sidewalk of salt and shovels
digging out the shops...
the smell of warmth, of oak,

drifting thick from brick and mortar,
soups and running noses tucked away
inside the bars and churches,
snowfall on stones in cemeteries

of the Methodist, St. Luke's,
and of the Catholic.
There's birds at the feeder
of a residential tucked nearby.

A sigh, a whisper of air
between the shops
from the docks, chilly regards
from river and bay.

And a waterman, on his way
to the mouth: leather skin, covered
and coated in khaki and denim,
with permanent painted on flannel.

The oysters busheled up are icing over
in a harbor of seafood trucks
and white liars, old men who carry business
no longer, young boys with no blood to offer.

Forsaken a tradition, over a dollar.
And so the middle aged...age. With bad knees,
busted knuckles, and a thermos of lukewarm
coffee, black and heavy.

Cigarette smoke and rubber boots,
bibs and denim jeans drying inside
beside a stove of wood, the cord
stacked long outside.

And babies buried deep in coats
and blankets, mothers careful
in the parking lots of
Grauls and Acme. 

Stews for dinner, Oyster based
and beef, warm tomato 
with Saltines for crumbling
and butter for spreading.

Just the way of things.

On Spencer Creek, someone took down
a Christmas tree: a tomato cage 
on a dock. Distant echoes of a motor
lapped the shoreline.

Some men dreamed of spring time,
when the cold would stop biting
and the creeks would clear
away the winter with the rain.

Some days will never be the same.
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