Moving to New Hampshire


First Friends

First morning

in a new place

a new space

Boxes, mountainous,

waiting to be opened,


ordered into cabinets, onto shelves

but even as the chores of settling in

loom before me

I have routines

to anchor me, wherever, whenever

Morning coffee, and my

my moments of meditation

move me into the day.

I boil water, prepare the pot

and stretch the in-breaths of wonder.

It’s done, I’m here, what next?

Mug in hand

I step outside to meet the morning friends

of my new life.

Lily announces herself first,

no other name is possible.

Lily, the great red pine

perhaps five stories high,

is the cornerstone of my woods.

Her lean russet gray trunk

holds a flourish of branches

above the woods around her

as she too stretches to catch

the glint of morning sun,

and trumpet the start of day.

Beneath her,

entwined around her lower half

are the younger maple twins,

Cathy, flouncing her red in the morning breeze

and Margaret, wearing yellow.

Gentle John stands behind the three,

stately in his traditional

evergreen stance.

These three stand out

as I scan my morning porch view,

but further back are more.

The beech and birch and fir and spruce.

My woods and welcome to them.

Yes some stand out,

some have their moments of glory

but it is a community as well,

my nearest neighbors,

my woods

to learn and live with,

my friends.

Meet Lily, Cathy, Margaret and  Gentle John

Little George

I admit,

I didn’t appreciate George

for what he was

at least not to start.

You see, I had a cell phone

that didn’t work,

in the house, or near the house.

And so,

the jangle of the cell phone

sent me running towards my rock.

I’d named some trees already,

I’d name my rock,

why not?

But what would fit?

And so

I stood a distance away

and found the place to grab

those effervescent signals from afar.

Time-Warner wouldn’t come immediately

to install the needed land line.

I kept apace with the outer world,

by standing in my special place.

It’s than I noticed the rock.

Not boulder large

but nicely shaped,

a point

and then a lesser point...

a seat.

This rock of mine

quite clearly did resemble,

was surely related,

a direct descendent of

the glory of the Whites.

And so

I named him Little George.

Little George


of his


With squinting eye of artist

I judged his shape to be

a mini-mountain grey

with just a hint of snow cap white

with ledges, cracks and crevices.

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Lily, Cathy, Margaret and  Gentle John  in winter.