Poetry
Photo by Kristen Allen
Twelve Moons
January
January is alight in possibilities.
It’s feeling the cold air as you breathe it in, seeing it exhale out.
It’s the smoke the fire sends up the chimney to greet you from the outside.
It’s your back tingling as you warm near its flames.
It’s the damp earth smell of your drying wool mittens.
It’s the sweet hot chocolate you’re promised every snow.
It’s periwinkle mornings, snow squeaking underfoot.
It’s a moose snorting in the dark, telling her yearling a bedtime story.
It’s snuggling up to your mama for a story of your own.
Dream this year’s dreams, little one.
February
February is delighting in winter’s beauty.
It’s swirling snow frosting pine trees.
It’s electric blankets on covered porches warding off the cold.
It’s snowshoes and igloos, ice skates and snowball fights.
It’s bellies full of warm oatmeal, thick with brown sugar and cream.
It’s licking the icicles your daddy breaks off from the eaves.
It’s candles throwing light as the day turns to dusk.
It’s skiers with torches and fireworks, keeping the dark at bay.
Have so much fun, little one.
March
March is transformation.
It’s snow, moist and lumpy, like mashed potatoes.
It’s sunshine that coaxes dripping water from the rooftops.
It’s beef stew and first greens.
It’s panoramic sunsets flush with pinks and oranges.
It’s the world smelling softer.
It’s patches of earth emerging, springy to the touch.
It’s the hope of imminent spring.
Revel in the change, little one.
April
April is new life.
It’s snow in retreat: Trees and bushes—like us—freed from their winter layers.
It’s the first green grass and fat buds on the aspens.
It’s the peep of newly hatched chicks.
It’s the river rising.
It’s asparagus and lemons and strawberry shortcake puffy with clouds of whipped cream.
It’s honking geese V-ing northward.
It’s bike rides in bright pink and yellow rain boots.
It’s sunlight stretched out over bluebird skies.
It’s the promise of effortless days to come.
Burst forth, little one!
May
May is a flourish.
It’s swift winds and flood watches.
It’s “BEARS ARE AWAKE!” signs strung over Main Street.
It’s high snow getting patchy.
It’s Wind in the Willows read in the clear morning light.
It’s salads of dandelion leaves that look like dragon’s teeth.
It’s board games under tin roofs that make music of raindrops.
It’s evening walks around the neighborhood, where purple crocuses greet the moonrise.
It’s stretching our arms towards the sun.
Grow and bloom, little one.
June
June is bright with bliss.
It’s lilacs and cherries and feet wet from overflowing streams.
It’s children playing in the grass under butterflies on the breeze.
It’s camping and snuggling deep into sleeping bags to avoid the morning chill.
It’s pots of geraniums and running through sprinklers.
It’s bouquets of dew-soaked field flowers bringing happiness inside.
It’s frogs croaking and school’s out and bedtimes are a suggestion, not a rule.
It’s sleepovers with next-morning pancakes.
It’s Venus in the West, more radiant than you’ve ever seen her.
Shine on, little one!
July
July is a swirl of delight.
It’s long hikes through forests ringed with mountains as jagged as antlers.
It’s watermelon and river trips.
It’s boats of sticks and leaves set loose to find their fortune.
It’s hammocks in trees.
It’s corn and burgers.
It’s sun on skin.
It’s young deer, timid and cautious.
It’s parades in the morning and fireworks at night.
It’s bats darting in the dark as the neighborhood kids gather for Ghost in the Graveyard.
It’s thunder and lightning storming the night.
Feast on the beauty, little one!
August
August is pausing for breath.
It’s old dogs on slow walks.
It’s bunny tracks ice cream at the soda fountain.
It’s grasshoppers that fling themselves out of tall, itchy grass.
It’s days of brilliant blue, the clouds on summer break.
It’s whizzing hummingbirds fighting over feeders.
It’s velvet cattails reaching skyward.
It’s lemonade with ice and pavement hot to the touch.
It’s hot air balloons that rise with the morning.
It’s the happy smell of cut and baled hay.
Rest in this moment, little one.
September
September is abundance.
It’s bees buzzing amongst the garden’s bounty.
It’s moose in the yard, relaxing on the grass.
It’s shooting stars and making wishes.
It’s a trail dotted with cows and men on horseback.
It’s peaches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and the last of the barbeques until spring.
It’s trees turning towards the loudest colors on the wheel.
It’s quilts on the lawn and laying in the dark, fingers intertwined with your mama’s as you tell her secrets by the light of the moon.
Gather your riches, little one!
October
October is holding on.
It’s soaking up the last of the year’s warmth.
It’s apple cider and donuts, root beer and card games.
It’s the wind swirling leaves into technicolor tornados.
It’s the perfect pumpkin at the patch.
It’s ponds noisy with geese.
It’s the smell of skunks and muddy bear prints encircling the car.
It’s the Halloween costumes your Grandma makes you from scratch: Bunny, peacock, T-rex.
It’s the frost that fades under the sun’s kisses.
Let go, little one.
November
November is burrowing in.
It’s cozying up to the fire as your mama draws the blinds against the dark and cold.
It’s warm woolen sweaters and bright puffy jackets.
It’s leached-out landscapes, grays and browns in color’s wake.
It’s the excitement of first snows.
It’s brooks still burbling under uneven ice.
It’s sheep down from the high country.
It’s sunsets that turn the clouds gauzy gold and pink.
It’s quiet and stillness. Refuge. Retreat.
It’s turkey and stuffing and cranberries and pies in the oven.
It’s being thankful for those you love and who love you.
That love is what matters, little one.
December
December is enchantment.
It’s hillsides of twinkling lights.
It’s cold air full of tiny sparkles, like glitter sprinkled over the world.
It’s a grouse family trying to wash off their spots with a snow bath.
It’s minestrone warm in your belly as you go with your daddy to cut down a Christmas tree.
It’s the handmade ornaments your mama says are the most precious ones.
It’s a bushy-tailed fox wending its way through the snow beneath your frosted window.
It’s cookies shaped like reindeer and snowflakes.
It’s the morning sun shining through bare trees, every twig a dazzle of ice.
It’s the alpenglow that pinks the shortest day of the year.
Live in this joy, little one.
PBR
Colorado River.
Crayon-red kayaks.
Three friends.
Mid-summer easy.
Halfway down the river.
A glimpse of man-made navy.
Riding ripples in the reeds.
Something lost by those before us?
It’s a blue-ribbon six-pack.
Cold from the river.
All the cans unopened.
How lucky are we?
It’s a different kind of day now.
One with gifts from the river.
Three cans open.
For a time we linger.
Colorado River.
Fizzy beers in the eddy.
Three friends.
Mid-summer easy.