From the Gardens of the Frost Place.The low silver cloud in the east announced,
like a shock of white hair,
the rising of the moon over Franconia Notch;
the rising of the fear that my words
wouldn't measure up the next day.
* *
I drove by before sunset just to see his place.
A small white farmhouse above
the dusty dirt road below,
two chimneys, an upstairs-window looking down,
not a trace of kitchen gardens,
a closed-up barn out back,
and at its side the sign
“Plants for Sale, Inquire Within”.
* * *
The views of Mt. Cannon and Mt. LaFayette,
which he so clearly saw from the porch,
now greatly obscured by invading trees.
The fields below had all but finished
their Civil War retreat
for the lack of the hired man.
All the birches around,
even the white ones by St. Matthew's Chapel,
had grown so big.
Would they swing again for me,
and if they did,
could I keep my comfortable yet precarious balance?
* * * *
I had come in a dry season
when even his well went dry;
a new possessor must dig deeper.
Only streams fed by the deepest springs still flowed.
Elsewhere, exposed boulders,
smoothed by years of rough ground polishing,
shone warmly in the sharp rays of the setting sun.
Looking long enough,
I could discern a pattern
in the random jumbles of past flash floods.
* * * * *
The barn was open next day
and I warmed to the kindred souls
who sat next to me while the masters read
or who listened to my own words
in safe small groups.
“Ten container-grown shrubs left over
when the master gardener changed his mind.”
* * * * * *
Back at the Homestead Inn,
I walked the ridge twice each day,
seeking a solution to my writer's block,
pondering what I heard the others say.
The wild blue mountains of morning
were clarified by piercing light in afternoon,
revealing structures of man.
Outside a worn, white mother cat
led her three black kittens
across the hummingbird-green lawn.
One puzzled at the mystery of a yellow Monarch,
another made it three feet up
the broad trunk of a tall maple.
before falling back.
You try, too.
* * * * * * *
One day I walked entranced,
vibrant forgotten images sprang to life
behind my tearful eyes.
I was creating again.
It felt almost as good as sex,
but lasted much longer.
Hayden Carruth had shown me how to finish
just the day before by his choice of companion
and by admonishing me to reveal myself.
Now I would be ready with my latest poem
for our public reading that night.
“Fit them in somewhere at home
or give them from the Frost Place to a friend”.
* * * * * * * *
I was flung high now
like the fragile glider in the sky;
kept effortlessly aloft
until the inevitable downdraft came
as it did late that afternoon.
Down, down, down, down the long descent
to the creeping shadows of doubt
that evening about the valley site.
The barn of night enclosed us,
it was my turn to lead the vespers.
The audience grew still.
Would the thrush of evening
sing out to challenge us?
* * * * * * * * *
Let your work be heard,
let your selves be seen,
connect to the inner source of life.
Our voices sounded out strong,
applause blessed each of us in turn.
We had passed our askesis
and felt like mystes
in the Telesterion at Eleusis.
Raised in his clearing,
having struggled to get free of our isolated boxes,
we emerged with Persephone from the dark cave of Pluto
at all costs into our own way.
“From the gardens of the Frost Place,
$7 for one or $30 for the lot.”
He would have loved the ruse.
The End
© Sherman K. Poultney 29 July 1991
