In Vermont

The afternoon December wind spits
sprays of ice splintering barns.

All that rough, brown stubble pokes
endlessly through the frozen ground,

an unshaven face.
The car won't warm up.

Sticks by the hundreds scratch
the lavender sky, a world of white wet socks.

Cold fingers brush day in a haze
and wave to the windshield.

Snow-cuffed pines blur the mountain crust,
winter fields, glistening ancestral farms.

Along an empty road the snow drifts
into a quiet ravine.

Prancing on the hilltop the sun
generously pours its butterscotch rays

on steeples, silos, clapboard houses
sliding off the crystal creek along

an empty road. Snow drifts
into a quiet ravine.

Nancy Haiduck

Arlene Ang:
Fascinating imagery and close attention to sound devices make this piece a winner. Its fine craftsmanship makes every couplet zing nicely on the page and on the tongue. Even the line, "The car won't warm up" packs a punch because of its simple factuality which contrasts nicely with the vision, "Sticks by the hundreds scratch/ the lavender sky, a world of white wet socks." The repetition of "Along an empty road the snow drifts/ into a quiet ravine" in the end is clever and deliciously subtle.

Bernard Henrie:
"In Vermont" sets mood, temperature and pace in the first two lines. The poem transports the reader into a physical and mental landscape that is as clear as it is figurative and thoughtful; the physical elements of temperature and frozen ground swell naturally and then fade into a satisfying final image. The reader is allowed to linger, to feel the cold, to see the empty road, to follow the snow drifting into the empty ravine. I could not help thinking of our lives, unfolding slowly, sometimes without companionship, but moving toward a ravine, a safe place of privacy and quiet purpose.