THE PERIPATETIC VISITOR

A longtime friend who travels the world
manages every year to drop by for a spell.
It never fails, he bring fresh flowers to my wife,
throws his arms around me for a warm and welcome hug.
We never know exactly when he’ll arrive.
He’s always vague about his plans. More than once
he appeared soaking wet from the rain. Again
he arrived covered with snow.
Another time the sun had burned his cheeks.
First thing he does is march me to the garden,
reminds me it’s time to plant seeds.
Later, smiling slyly,
he points to the storm windows I haven’t taken down.
We adore him, would like him to stay with us
all through the year.
Not on your life, he lets us know.
It soon gets too hot for him. He’s off to northern climes.
The Swedes, among whom he has many friends,
roll out a grassy carpet for him at solstice time.
The sun shines all night, and those rimed Nordics
dance around him, thawing out their limbs.
Who knows where he goes after the wild bacchanal?
But along about the time here, when a chill fills the air
and the trees begin to shiver and drop their leaves,
the son of a gun turns up where the ice
is beginning to melt from forest lakes
and bubbling freshets race down the slopes
of the towering Andes, leaving behind winter’s cover of snow.
In Valparaiso he used to visit Pablo Neruda
in the years when the poet was inspired to write
“This Beauty Is Soft” and “I Crave Your Mouth.”
But for the moment he’s with us, we’ve got him
for a short while.
We’ll break out the barbecue cooker tonight.
We’ll have charbroiled hamburgers and drink cold beers,
and under the springtime starlit skies
sing again some of the old songs.

NOVEMBER’S GARDEN


November, and the garden’s gone.
A frost last night, all was lost,
departed like a wanton lover.

Blasted leaves, few in number, cling
to chilblained branches
slighted by a feckless sun.

I stare out my window
at the wasted husks
strewn about as after a carnival spree,
and smile in contemplation of the litter,

grateful, granted temporary leave
from aching hours spent
coaxing, nurturing, carefully cajoling.

After winter wearies
of its faithless fling,
my pretty, I know, will reappear,
peer up at me,
and from the ravished bed
once again incite my blood.

THE LOGGING RIG

If I lived in Maine or Oregon
the sight of a 40-ton load
of pulpwood logs
rumbling along on a trailer rig
would seem as natural
as a kid on a skateboard
clattering by on a sidewalk,
here, in Connecticut.
So rare, this awesome load,
massive trunks chained together,
a cortege
of flashing lights ahead and behind.
Cops stop traffic to give it way,
as if a funeral were passing by.
It comes to me to bow my head,
something majestic
has been borne away.

Copyright, Robert Riche.
All rights reserved by author.