{"id":3305,"date":"2022-04-22T00:01:56","date_gmt":"2022-04-22T04:01:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/?p=3305"},"modified":"2022-04-22T08:27:41","modified_gmt":"2022-04-22T12:27:41","slug":"cyr","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2022\/04\/22\/cyr\/","title":{"rendered":"A Collection of Poems: New Year’s Day, New Year’s Day II"},"content":{"rendered":"

By Anne Cyr<\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/h3>\n

 <\/p>\n

New Year’s Day<\/span><\/h3>\n

My <\/span><\/i>tote road – at least I’ve considered it mine<\/span><\/p>\n

these past twenty-five years.<\/span><\/p>\n

One December day a sign appeared\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

at the end of that road:<\/span><\/p>\n

American Forest Management <\/span><\/i>it proclaimed.<\/span><\/p>\n

With trepidation I walked, and the farther I walked,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

more swaths of orange tape were revealed.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A week ago it began.<\/span><\/p>\n

I talked to the man blocking the road with his huge truck.<\/span><\/p>\n

Hello, I said, curious neighbor, here. Just wondering…\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He was kind, reassuring, said only forty percent would be logged,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

they’ll bring in a chipper, tidy it all up. Nice and neat, he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then they started. Titanic Tonka toys,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

mammoth circular blades, robotic arms,<\/span><\/p>\n

the men encased within glass all day,<\/span><\/p>\n

pushing and pulling levers, saws screaming.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

All is calm on New Years.<\/span><\/p>\n

A foot of snow fell yesterday\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

but the work churned on and the road was cleared.<\/span><\/p>\n

I make my way down the to the field<\/span><\/p>\n

where stacks and stacks of limbed trees await removal.<\/span><\/p>\n

The air is pungent with resin,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

bark and branches litter the torn up road.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I totter among the massive muddy ruts.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

They’ve created new roads.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I follow one up a slight incline, another branches off,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

and then another. It’s true they haven’t clear cut,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

but still I feel like keening. The light dims yet I persist,<\/span><\/p>\n

tripping now and then over a stump, looking toward the river,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

at the sunset unfurling across the sky,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

crimson and coral, matching the colors\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

of the raw wood.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I still myself. The air is mild, moist.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

All I hear is the rustle of dry beech leaves.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I seek the moon and there it is, a hazy crescent\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

floating in the mauve-stroked horizon.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I touch a giant white pine\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

that – for some reason – was left on its own,<\/span><\/p>\n

give it a pat, and head for home.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

New Year’s Day II (one year later) <\/span><\/h3>\n

 <\/p>\n

We walk together, but apart –\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

not much talk. I slow my pace to a stroll\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

in order not to overtake until,<\/span><\/p>\n

at the bottom of the road, he heads for the field<\/span><\/p>\n

and with a word I turn toward the culvert,<\/span><\/p>\n

to the stream with its uplifting babble.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I hit my stride and follow the path<\/span><\/p>\n

we’d made through the rubble,<\/span><\/p>\n

diverting the orange tape to our purpose,<\/span><\/p>\n

marking as straight a line as can be managed\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

through the destruction.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Soon the river is reached and I am back\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

among the giant pines, the needle strewn banks.<\/span><\/p>\n

I take a deep breath and whistle our whistle<\/span><\/p>\n

but receive no response. Realizing hearing aids were left behind<\/span><\/p>\n

I head downstream, trotting along the path and<\/span><\/p>\n

when he emerges, I bark out a laugh.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I slow to match his step. We crack across thin ice,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

frozen leaves giving us purchase as we make our way\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

to a small point where he muses fishing might be good come spring.<\/span><\/p>\n

Down he sits with a stick he’s picked up and dabbles the water.<\/span><\/p>\n

I hum a hymn, trying in vain to remember the words\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

as he dips for imaginary fish. I announce a further jog upstream –<\/span><\/p>\n

he says he’s staying put.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Moving along quickly, kicking sticks out of the way,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

bending to shift larger ones, I pause to listen\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

as more running brooks shoot off to the side,<\/span><\/p>\n

and poke at what looks like a large wing\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

with a few scraggly feathers still attached.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When I am stopped by a footbridge that runs short,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I retrace my steps, keeping the river in my periphery,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

for the sun is bouncing off its surface<\/span><\/p>\n

leaving spots that dance behind.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I loop back through the ravaged woods – following the daubs\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

of orange tape – and where we first parted ways\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I see his bobbing hat ahead. Soon I close the gap and pass.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

“Was it good for you?” I ask and head for home, knowing\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

it had to be.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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\u00a0 at the end of that road: American Forest Management it proclaimed. With trepidation I walked, and the farther I walked,\u00a0 more swaths of orange tape were revealed.   […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2031,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[40],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3305","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-spire-2022-issue"],"yoast_head":"\nA Collection of Poems: New Year's Day, New Year's Day II - The Maine Journal of Conservation and Sustainability - University of Maine<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2022\/04\/22\/cyr\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"A Collection of Poems: New Year's Day, New Year's Day II - The Maine Journal of Conservation and Sustainability - University of Maine\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"By Anne Cyr   New Year’s Day My tote road – at least I’ve considered it mine these past twenty-five years. 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