Scott Edward Cole: Musings

Drawn close again
to the hearth,
the dance of flames
against the blackest
nights fathomable.

In the whispering
of mercurial shadows,
a lyric born.
A melody.
Nocturnes.

Summer, skipped
like a stone
on still water.

Autumn, elusive,
often tempestuous,
unable to give up the ghost.

Darkness enrobes
our afternoons,
and turns our thoughts
inward...

Breaths linger
on the black
gloss of night,
the other side
of the glass pane.

Spring comes to the millpond.
The geese and their goslings
graze daily on these banks.
Yellow flag, blooming.
Angelica sending up her lanky plumes.
Purple loosestrife asserting
herself everywhere.
The sky in the water.
Clouds, blushing at the beauty
of it all..

Born this year
on my birthday,
goslings graze on
the banks of this millpond,
under the towering necks
of their vigilant parents.

Pale and weak,
these blossoms speak
of wishing to be
wrapped up
in the veil
of your mystique...

Clouds of starlings
sweep the sky.
And here am I,
nearing this bridge--

The snow in kisses
on my face--
And this is how
they ask me:

Will you remember
how to love?

The hollow
of my heart
that only nature
might have healed,

Is like this clearing
in this woods
you have revealed.

When will
the silence
fill with birdsong?

The snow in kisses
on my face--

And Winter
is almost over.

And here am I,
crossing this bridge,
below which waters
dance under ice.

And Winter
is almost over.

Will you remember
how to love?

Darkness spills
like indigo ink
onto these grey,
still days.

Tea.
Fires.
Poetry.

Two cats,
ever dozing.

When the snow
turns to violet
blue of twilight,
songs begin
to emerge.

Gentle melodies
work their way
from my sleepy head.

Wisps of ideas
hang in the air,
as the applewood
burns and sputters
unto embers.

The geese
and the tourists,
long gone.


Those of us
who stay here
keep a secret.


Like the world
of the woods,
where everything
is still-- not dead,
but sleeping.


Hardened off,
but holding within
the tender gifts
of Spring.

The first snow
fallen today
into the valley
that cradles
One Swamp Road.

I have assembled
all of my music-making devices
near the hearth,
and have warmed my fingers
as they dance like flames
over the keys.

So much contained
within this word, hearth:

heart
earth
art
hear
ear
he

I should be leaving,
but I can't seem to move.
The thoughts I'm receiving
say I've something to prove.

Open my eyes.
Open the skies.
My rainmaker cries...

"I am here to collect you
into reflecting pools
then you'll see what I see..."
This wonderful thunder
has been speaking to me...

And when I've gathered the nerve
to ask for what I deserve--
when this light does shine,
Let it be mine.

Again at Long Nook.
Deepest September skies.
Clarity.
Music being born.
Words, like waves,
offer themselves
onto a stretch of shoreline.
White pebbles in pockets.
Waves, like words.