TUBA MIRUM* — and answer for my son

               I.
                 
Usually, I played the tuba.
Its nineteen feet of brass,
Twisted like my innards,
Sat heavy on my lap,
Resisted my embrace.
You’d think so ungainly a mate
Would have no music in it.
But when I put my lips to its,
The strings leaped,
The woodwinds were amazed.

               II.

Once, I played a sousaphone.
I dove head first into the cold, tapering circle;
Came up with it holding me:
Bearing down on my shoulder,
Its mouth rising from the coil like a serpent’s,
Its bell—flared like a fantastical lily—
Perched triumphant above my head.
The deep voice shook my body.
Laocoön would have understood.

          *Tuba mirum spargens sonum:   Woundrous sound the trumpet flingeth 
                                      — from the Requiem Mass



SISYPHUS IN VERMONT

They don’t shovel sidewalks here.
Yankee self-reliance yields in this matter
To fifteen minutes more under the quilts,
A cup of coffee at the breakfast table,
And calm assurance that the snow will melt
Or road crews will scrape it clear—
Whichever comes first.

So now I labor up the hill from town.
Above me, before me, in the air:
Glitter of crystal, gleam of frost,
Outlines of mountains and trees etched by last night’s storm,
Solids more solid, the wispy horizon harder to discern.

Underfoot’s not so benign:
“Don’t tread on me!”
If you count the slide backwards with each step,
The extra effort to dig in, get a grip, touch solid earth or pavement,
The uncertainty of what lies below the shimmering surface,
There’s nearly half again as much to climb.

(November 1997)