Sock Season
Those socks that I wore in the summer were sweet—
They wicked the sweat off of my toes.
My warm woolly socks in the winter were wild—
When I wore them my feet never froze.
For springtime I’ve gotten some socks made of cotton—
There’s a spring in my step wearing those.
But my slipper-socks slipped in the autumn. I fell
And my face, like a leaf, blushed bright rose.
Bard of the Mountains
Dedicated to the Brooklyn-based editors of The Adirondack Review
In a brew pub in Brooklyn a lone hipster sat
With his beard and suspenders and wide woodsman’s hat
Writing poems that were cryptic and free-form and earnest
Describing the ways that his woodsman’s soul yearnest
For high mountain peaks with their fauna and flora,
The kind that coordinate with a fedora.
But yearning is something best done from afar.
When black flies fill the woods, better stay in the bar.
On Reading Sonnet XLIII
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Got around. She had something to say
About loving and wooing,
Forgetting and screwing.
That’s why we still read her today.