Tiny snow pellets bouncing off my sleeve,
And sitting on my glove.
I recall their presence from years before.
They coax a small smile on my lips,
While I enjoy their gentle bounce.
If I were a child again,
I would not enjoy them more.
Today is as good as then,
As I need the smile even more.
It is important that my heart be lifted,
From the worries I bear.
My youth taught me,
That life keeps coming together,
With its unexpected joys.
© November, 2020
Spring flowers push their way through to see the sun,
Babies push their way through to see the faces of love.
Sharing warmth and creating beauty.
Everyone means something to someone.
A garden of many blossoms, tended by one,
Creates a place to admire.
A comforting face, seen by many,
Assures that beauty comes from within.
Sharing self, to make another blossom,
Brings the lives of many, out into the light.
(c) Rick Wyman
Soft pine carpet
Where birds silently land
And gentle rain disappears
My love beside me
Beneath a towering canopy
Of green shade
A place of heavenly rest
Of warm hope for future dreams
The brook speaks in a calming voice
The trail we crossed
Stopped here so our minds could wander
Love within and beauty in view
This place of spaciousness
Contains the things to give me passage
To look beyond this day
And turn memories into smiles of contentment
And wishes into tomorrow’s happiness
© Rick Wyman
This piece of earth,
So clearly framed in my mind’s eye,
Transformed life into a watercolor.
Brush strokes blended like free flowing rain.
This piece of earth,
My masterpiece in the making,
Faded when others took it away.
While my eyes were closed,
They stole my brush,
To make changes upon my vision.
They muddied up the vibrant colors,
With lack of caring.
Where birds once sang
And flowers bloomed,
Is filled with weeds
And branches without fruit.
This piece of earth,
That had pulled my heart to its beauty,
Now scarred by others,
Shunned me away.
I sadly left it there,
With those whose care was false.
They framed it as a decoy,
And hid this piece of earth so well,
It died alone.
Stepping on river rocks and ice,
Shadows of trout race by.
Snowbanks rise steeply.
Memories unfreeze my youth,
As warm thoughts of then,
Come back to me.
Eyes closed and vivid sounds trickle,
Boots slipped between snow mounded stones,
Where I searched for calm between the banks.
Freezing air awakened a need to go home,
Though I wish I could stay here listening.
February kept a promise,
Between the lighted window of home,
And time alone on the stream.
© Rick Wyman
Living in the country on a dirt road allows for many adventures in youth, including fun outings on the spur of the moment. Fishing in nearby streams that follow the contour of the valley in Cavendish and Chester Vermont, was one of those summer activities I enjoyed as a kid. The season always started on the second Saturday in April and coasted along until September which made it a perfect summer pastime for school vacation. My father was a great fisherman and came home with a fresh catch for supper often. I wasn’t as good at it but enjoyed catching a few good sized brook trout. I spent more time fishing alone than with friends because I had to meet my mother’s “get home so I can make sure you haven’t drowned” schedule. There weren’t many kids my age to go fishing with either, and it seemed that the one neighbor that was close to my age was always luckier than I was, and he didn’t hesitate to tell me so, which made me feel a bit inferior as a fisherman.
One day we were feeling like an adventure and took out a couple of horses for a ride. At the last minute we decided to take our fishing-poles with us. It appeared this would be a less strenuous trip than even on a bicycle. No pedaling, just hold the reigns and the pole crossways in our fingers over the front of the saddle. Every time we came to a good fishing hole we could just tie the horses up to a near-by safe tree and walk to the brook and throw in the line. The creel was a canvas bag with waterproof interior so if we caught any fish it would keep the leather saddle dry.
After fishing on the Dean Brook Road about 2 ½ miles from home, we turned around to head back. The ride was pretty uneventful and the horses were calm for the most part. The closer we got to home the more anxious we were to make it a more exciting ride. I recall David was on my right and I was posting along at a slow trot. He decided he’d like to kick it up a notch and we began to trot faster and then canter. Suddenly, and unbeknownst to him, the hook he had placed in the eye of the pole bounced loose and swung over just enough to catch in my Continue reading
Casual trail in the snow,
Cross country skier had been there though.
Deep mountainside woods,
A place I’d been before.
Travelers on skis or foot,
Seeking distance to feel
No door to close,
No window shade.
The more I walk,
The more my worries fade.
The snow is colder here,
Left untouched by the sun,
Not a wrinkle for the wind to smooth.
Deep breaths massage my chest
While passing silent sentences,
My thoughts layer upon my memory.
I will recall them to be laid upon paper,
That my eyes may give an opening for retrieval,
My pen renewed my calm.
Rick Wyman, 3/20/17 6:41 p.m. Spring Equinox
The forest changes faces,
One leaf at a time,
Clearing the way
For an uncalculated, honest look.
Like shaving in my mirror,
No matter what’s behind my eyes alone, Continue reading
The first snowflakes glide
They accumulate on weathered brown leaves
Rigid crevices begin to Continue reading
The day came with its own reason,
Its own clouds and sparse rays of sunshine.
I watched it happen from the mountain top.
There were anticipations of where I’d be later,
But for now, it was all Continue reading