“The Power Lines” by Steven Chabot

Poems by Steven Chabot*

The Power Lines

From the hilltop seat, miles can be seen, of the clear-cut swath winding through the woods

Brown-barren trees with creosote skin, evenly dot the rambling hills, spun on the trees, a web of black wire, traverses the hills below

At first glance, a scar, a blight on the land, progress-run rampant, a closer look and you will see, the beauty exposed to the light

In the spring, when the snow melts, and streams carry it away. The sunshine warms the burgeoning soil and stirs the life within

Frogs call out to find their mate and fiddleheads break through the ground, as spring’s first produce, free to take, from natures open buffet

With spring’s progress, cold grey hills, softened by shades of lush green, flying bugs feed the birds nesting in nearby trees.

Wildflower’s bloom, buds burst on the trees, fiddleheads uncoil, into a feathery sea, its waves ebb and flow with the breeze

Late May - early June wild roses show, upon the spiney brambles, from rocky crags, where they climb, their sweet scent fills the air

In summer’s youth, June brings a new scene, a garland of pink and green, as mountain laurel blooms, in full majesty, as far as the eye can see. Late June - early July wild blueberries start to ripen, with buckets and bags we pick for hours then bring

them back home to make pie and the sea of ferns could be an ocean, jungle or hedgerow, our imagination would make it so and all summer long, on the hills we’d run, laugh, and play, we’d hear the buzzing power lines on hot, hazy days and late July - early August brought another treat, the brambles climbing up the rocks have blackberries to eat and we picked them very carefully so the briars would not cut, the arms and hands retrieving the fruit on which would soon glut.

Days grow short and shadows grow long summer is slipping away, kids back in school and nights are cool, it’s the start of autumn’s display.

The leaves change their shade to russet, gold and red, they frame the heugh, on the top of the hill, and intensify its noble splendor.

As autumn wanes and winter strains to force its cold, cruel hand, frost and snow replace the glow of the leaves that have blown away. Cold and bleak snow capping each peak and the ground below. There is beauty still in the desolate hills awaiting spring’s reprise.