NATURE Poem: Woodstock, by Marie Anne

In my hometown,
winter was a fairy tale.
The concept of time,
a rising curve,
capturing
our attention with its hook.
In the midst of this thought,
I want to pause at the climax,

as if watching
the story that lies beyond,
at the end of the slide. Yesterday
I was calculating the rest of the day
with a glitch in my system.
The frozen dawn in the darkness,

back to old times,
hanging out in isolated cabins—
kerosene lamps, lit up candles,
those wood stoves that always work.
The rest of my friends like little shadows
in the middle of the campsite. In our town,
the old, renewed winter was a fairy tale,
and I tried to remember that machinery
can always be fixed—I thought

we’d have to be ready
to forgo some of the day’s plans,
and return to our manuals,
or call our parents for instructions
to make a bit more tea,
and relax with our limited tools
and our problems.

Each winter, the wet earth devours the gravel,
so reserving some fixed paths
for torrential rains and melted snow
requires planning. Yesterday
I was calculating the rest of the day
with a glitch in the system,
but back to energy—

I’ll change the batteries
next time and get some spares
with a block of cast iron;
I’ll add a bunch more solar panels.

My friends decided to warm the edges of the cabin
by moving a few feet away,
burning pine boards
for their candles. Trapped among the woods,
listening to the whispers of the breeze,
stuck in Woodstock—
as free as we could be,
with canned food munitions
and our weekend itinerary,

without needing the campfire to convey
the tales of some winter
even as the falling flakes
became a mass,
their individuality erased
in a flurry of white snow.

Orion, Pleiades opening constellations
in the dark, while the group recalls
old anecdotes from when we were younger—
a conjugation of time’s frame,
decorated by a white glow on the hills
while we barely distinguish
their silhouettes afar, trying to count
the stars as they fade like light.

From the east comes a sudden wind
that wakes us;
we, diurnal beings,
greet the star
fading in the distance,
as another splendor
is about to begin the morning.

Cold dawn in the darkness,
back to old times;
kerosene lamp, candles,
wood stoves that always worked.
The rest of my friends
as little shadows outside the cabin,
their heads covered in Eskimo hats,
living a wisdom
that is far off—

awareness has a distinctive form.
Our present selves,
empty and formal in their discourse;
these character arcs,
so deep and superficial.

A spark of a liberating spirit
that traps us
back in Woodstock.