A Collection of Poems: New Year’s Day, New Year’s Day II
By Anne Cyr
New Year’s Day
My tote road – at least I’ve considered it mine
these past twenty-five years.
One December day a sign appeared
at the end of that road:
American Forest Management it proclaimed.
With trepidation I walked, and the farther I walked,
more swaths of orange tape were revealed.
A week ago it began.
I talked to the man blocking the road with his huge truck.
Hello, I said, curious neighbor, here. Just wondering…
He was kind, reassuring, said only forty percent would be logged,
they’ll bring in a chipper, tidy it all up. Nice and neat, he said.
Then they started. Titanic Tonka toys,
mammoth circular blades, robotic arms,
the men encased within glass all day,
pushing and pulling levers, saws screaming.
All is calm on New Years.
A foot of snow fell yesterday
but the work churned on and the road was cleared.
I make my way down the to the field
where stacks and stacks of limbed trees await removal.
The air is pungent with resin,
bark and branches litter the torn up road.
I totter among the massive muddy ruts.
They’ve created new roads.
I follow one up a slight incline, another branches off,
and then another. It’s true they haven’t clear cut,
but still I feel like keening. The light dims yet I persist,
tripping now and then over a stump, looking toward the river,
at the sunset unfurling across the sky,
crimson and coral, matching the colors
of the raw wood.
I still myself. The air is mild, moist.
All I hear is the rustle of dry beech leaves.
I seek the moon and there it is, a hazy crescent
floating in the mauve-stroked horizon.
I touch a giant white pine
that – for some reason – was left on its own,
give it a pat, and head for home.
New Year’s Day II (one year later)
We walk together, but apart –
not much talk. I slow my pace to a stroll
in order not to overtake until,
at the bottom of the road, he heads for the field
and with a word I turn toward the culvert,
to the stream with its uplifting babble.
I hit my stride and follow the path
we’d made through the rubble,
diverting the orange tape to our purpose,
marking as straight a line as can be managed
through the destruction.
Soon the river is reached and I am back
among the giant pines, the needle strewn banks.
I take a deep breath and whistle our whistle
but receive no response. Realizing hearing aids were left behind
I head downstream, trotting along the path and
when he emerges, I bark out a laugh.
I slow to match his step. We crack across thin ice,
frozen leaves giving us purchase as we make our way
to a small point where he muses fishing might be good come spring.
Down he sits with a stick he’s picked up and dabbles the water.
I hum a hymn, trying in vain to remember the words
as he dips for imaginary fish. I announce a further jog upstream –
he says he’s staying put.
Moving along quickly, kicking sticks out of the way,
bending to shift larger ones, I pause to listen
as more running brooks shoot off to the side,
and poke at what looks like a large wing
with a few scraggly feathers still attached.
When I am stopped by a footbridge that runs short,
I retrace my steps, keeping the river in my periphery,
for the sun is bouncing off its surface
leaving spots that dance behind.
I loop back through the ravaged woods – following the daubs
of orange tape – and where we first parted ways
I see his bobbing hat ahead. Soon I close the gap and pass.
“Was it good for you?” I ask and head for home, knowing
it had to be.