Maud Carpenter

Whenever I think of Maud Carpenter alone,
I think of that place in the woods where squirrels
nutted in the noisy leaves;
where the tongue-lashing water of Denton Brook
scolded its way downhill.
I never threw a stone without thinking of Maud;
thinking the sky would avalanche in sharp blue rain.
I never ate the pitted fruit
without pretending that one of Maud’s accusing eyes
was buried under the pulpy juice.
How I would dread the first ice of winter—
past her house to the frog pond, my skates on my back,
I knew in my child’s mind that all the secrets of a shiver,
all the cut lips and frozen toes
were waiting behind the door at Maud Carpenter’s,
and would be there until the last thaw.