Charlotte Elizabeth Staples

NOVEMBER'S HOPE when November sings its grey somber skies and light is gone by five creeps into thoughts the lush green of may and long warm evens to ward through the cold day when November pales and frosts to silver bitter-ended leaves once green creeps into dreams paths that mountain-tossed are laced with spring beauties and greenest moss when November ices in the edges and calms the wild field with a skin of snow creeps ever a hope that deep within the hedges of darkest night will quicken light and warmth to grow	MAGIC'S DANCE Tonight I wait for the animals to dance to come slowly up the tree tunnel to the clearing to the fresh whiteness glistering in the moonlight tree shadows web and cloud the snow dark echoes of the clouds swiftly skeining the sky yet here there's a mere drift of air the trees' still branches clasped by the new softness I would dance tonight in the newness of the clearing singing softly to the snow, the moon to the rich darkness of the firs and the fretwork of the beeches to the animals unseen in the magic of this moon-bright night
DREAMING SPRING there are times when dreaming seems the only answer when spring never comes and the green grass grows achingly distant the clutch of cold every morning lingers through the day and the northwest wind still comes from the pole dreaming tiny mint green leaves feathering the branches pale spring beauties topping last year's dried leaves thrush song haunting the trees dreaming green grass rushing to the sky Deneb, Vega and Altair high above in the evening warm, warm misty rains dreaming lilacs scenting the warm breeze the first white of shad against the darkening trees waves of pale red reaching up the mountains dreaming the rich, raw furrows hungry for seed cows on fresh grass and the first mowing heifers testing the pasture's freedom dreaming spring and it comes	SIMPLE TIMES simple times that seem like dreams the hour between sundown and dark when the world gathered for night the air rich in hue slowly slowly fading from sight the cow path through the woods passed by a yellow lady slipper and trailing arbutus once seen and never forgotten but never found again columbines that red and yellow went clump by clump down to the brook and brook that pooled and riffled down the ravine from one fence to the other hard working times when heat and sweat and hay and juniper and raking and stacking and contrary cows and rock picking was I dream times when the beautiful man was in my head and I the princess met love come walking with the cows where was it lost?
THE HUNGER Why do women weep inside for the child they would have been when precious times are rotted from within images that burden spirits so closely bound that knottiness ties anger to the sinews Why do women embrace the hunger and thirst for a source that would make them whole seeking someone else's eyes to tell her she is wonderful, beautiful gracious, and eminently lovable Why do women embrace passivity waiting for affirmation waiting for love I am who I am don't ask me how I am if you don't want to hear don't tell me to be quiet and wait a minute I've waited too many minutes I've waited a lifetime no more I am who I am and I am strong I can feed my own heart's desires I can be in my soul and of my soul and I am beautiful past hope does not mean hopeless past hope means I will and I can not hope I can we have surpassed hope and we will do we will feed ourselves all the glorious things in the universe for surely we deserve them in us glory will flourish and from us glory will abound	CHICKADEES black white and gray diminutive and vibrant you come about the hemlocks seeking sleeping insects and tiny seeds your phoebe whistles in january call to spring even in the most frigid day your presence steadfast reminders that winter too will pass bright chickadees hope is not a thought to you prayer has no substance in your lives the next seed the next drop of water the next night spent fluffed against the cold these too somehow you know will pass from you, though, I take hope I can make it through the short cold days waiting for the moment when outside the window singing ``phoebe'' will be chickadees
GRACE the strange delectable delights each of us reach towards, seeking out that brightest glow, that cleanest kernel that gleams of grace we stop, dazzled -- sight-spinning in this commonplace, garden-variety world confused given a kernel, who can be ready for the whole blooming plant all this muttering of grace ``say grace'' ah-ah-ah-men ``say, Grace, are you dancing tonight?'' say: ``God give you grace and peace'' but God seems to pick and choose the graceful and the peaceful in the strange horrible ways of inhumanity each of us turns away shuttering that brightest glow tarnishing the kernel spotted grace spattered grace the harlequin who tumbles forth shreds chill veils that shield us creates such laughter that we must hold each other up wipe each other's tears in sight-spinning, grace-gleaming love