Hanging Pails

They're hanging pails today.
Armfuls of hammer and tin,
and nails and spouts
for pounding and pouring—
meandering toward the maple woods.
I think I'll tag along.

They're hanging pails today.
They'll pierce the sap-laden
hearts of the sugar-bearers.
They'll prune in-the-way
frost-coated branches
and overgrown thickets
that guard the maple groves.
I think I'll tag along.

They're hanging pails today.
We'll watch the lofty maples
reluctantly yield into tin,
spilling their life-story sap
into fire-fed kettles,
boiling over like the
icicle falls of Ricketts Glen.
I think I'll tag along.

They're hanging pails today.
Each drip a soft punctuation
of the cold season's storied thaw.
We'll boil down the tree-blood
until it tastes like
Sunday morning—slow and sure—
bottles of winter's nectar
set upon our tables like sunrise.

They're hanging pails today.
I think I'll tag along.

© Todd Layton Eckard

Stand of Trees in Bogart’s Field

The trees, in hibernation, bring
a solitude to hurried flings,
and burrowed sleep to fluttered wings—
they cradle snow and nest.

Forgive me for my stop and stare.
This beauty finds me everywhere:
a thornbush hedge, a cottontail’s lair—
he’ll sense my coming close.

The crooked road that winds the bend,
and plowing fields now on the mend,
send messages to my passage: end—
be quick afoot this path.

This field of trees, in slumber deep,
knows secrets that I dare not speak.
I’ll walk on by and let them sleep,
their hibernation songs.

Yes, I’ll walk on by and keep my course,
without delay, without remorse.
The storm will only press its force
to bind this day in snow.

Honey Sun

Shall I pluck it from the sky?
Amber comb, melting high,
dripping slowly from palette blue—
the queen, circling her hive,
stirring a bright, delirious brew.

A honey sun in latter May
mends the starflower’s wind-torn fray,
hems the morning fast to noon,
sticky sweet in golden rays—
Can summer come too soon?

In open throats of clover bloom,
a honeybee in pollen swoons;
she flies against the clouds,
swarms from ripened nectar rooms—
the honey sun burns proud.

©Todd Layton Eckard

Span Beneath Birches White

Red, red bridge, built sound and strong,
Spanning banks the valley-long.
Each creak, each crack, a backwoods song—
Soothing birches white.

Creeping heather curls along its planks,
Yellow sky in golden ranks
Flows softly on the road that flanks
The brook that whispers spring.

It reaches out from here to there,
A bulwark sturdy despite its wear.
Each crossing soul a story shared,
A loyal olive branch.

Though roof and pine bear split and strain,
Oaken beams bent out of line remain.
Its purpose stands through wind and rain—
This guardian of the north.

Arches framed in weathered boards
Like pages inked with sacred words,
Slatted sunlight fans stripes of warmth,
The bridge a silent witness still.

Like a heartbeat for sojourners’ ways,
A passage stitched with shadows that fade,
A wooden womb keeping the brook at bay,
Red span beneath the birches white.

Painting entitled 'The Old Bridge' by artist Debbie Clark

Biddings and Breakfast

With red wing bearing
lure and sentiment,
beyond my bread-corner
door—the muting glass mocks
flit and skirl odes.

Echoes of storybook appeal—
look who's come for breakfast!

The scarlet-fire!
The crested helm!
Satin-black scarf,
lemon-yellow whistler,
dawning ruddy, crimson coat.

An embered breast against the frost,
puffed and plumed,
in skittish stare,
as if our acquaintance met—
hollowed in the prickle-hedge.

Stay awhile! Won't you?
We've got biddings to tend
and breakfast to spend.

A Sidewalk Long

I’m going to throw the snow aside
and broom the blanket’s frosty edge,
and later you and I shall stride
the sidewalk long, the pathway wide—
immerse ourselves in winter’s dredge.

I’m going to throw the snow aside.
Its dusting, soft and ghostly white,
makes every step a careful turn;
the melt will help from sunlight burn,
and hand in hand we’ll share the sight.

I’m going to throw the snow aside
and spy the house finch feeding fast.
He’ll watch my slow and cautious step
while morning crawls and creeps along—
we’ll take it slow, we’ll make it last.

The Dead Wood

I’m off to trace
the dead wood—
to saunter its aging path
that squirrels in, then out
the vale, and curls
like the locks of your hair.

I’ll bring you a fistful
of berries and nuts,
and pinewood for
your bird-box shelters,
and mushrooms for
your famous stone soup.

Send me off
from our sleeping loft.

I’ll miss you
in the dead wood.
The bluebirds will
keep me company,
and the knocking oaks
and hickory strokes—
what else can they do
aside from falling for you?

I’ll think of you
gently, when I crest
the hill where our names
are etched in that
shagbark giant—
a heart, a date,
and our names carved well.

Send me off, draped in
my woolen smock.

There’s nothing like
the dead wood—
a grand escape indeed.
Yellow patches scatter
seed, and secrets slip
(they grow like weeds).
The healing hush
of a deep timber dell,
like the saving stroke
of an old church bell,
mildly tolls for me.

Send me off
with a goodbye, soft.

Feather-shed

A need to nap
grew in me well;
by crackling flame
my eyelids fell
in drifts so deep,
as if a spell
forecast across
my brow.

The mounting snow
brought dream on dream;
my sighing slowed,
the smoke-logs leaned.
Nothing hurried
in between
my pillow’s
feather-shed.

The Fortress We Made

Remember when—
you, I, the others—
winter-bound,
raised a white kingdom
on snow-bright days,
a maze of winding tunnels
that never seemed to end.

We stacked the woodpile high,
banked its sides with walls of snow,
built shields against the sting of throws,
played mountain kings
and jumping-jack angels,
feathers pressed into the ground
behind our frozen bridge.

We meant to conquer storms—
to test the cold,
to stand unyielding.
Then, spent, we’d yield at last
to fire-glow warmth,
steam rising from our gloves and bones,
the quiet love of being snowed-in, safe.

That world still finds us—
when morning falls in white,
and time, like snow,
returns what once was ours.

What better use of storm or hour
than what we built on winter morns?

Death of a Flower

Where is your fight, that brought you bright to me?
You’ve given up; your yellow cup grows pale.
As one who walks by rote, you fail to see
The wondrous bloom that once did hush my wail.

Your purpose lives, unlike your petals’ sun,
For smiles that crossed my face still linger on;
And in the deluge poured, your colors run
Until your bowing head and stem are gone.

The vase that held your pose sits empty, clear.
Dried petals, round its ornate base, remain,
But shatter ’pon my touch and rasp the ear—
Coreopsis, in the nook, not gone in vain.

The Winter Going

The hearth's grown cold - or so it seems.
The firewood, stacked in brumal scenes,
Awaits my trudging in the snow.
You're deep in sleep; I'll go alone
And sled it back for you and me.

The wood rests bone-dry 'neath the shed;
Though you won't miss me in your bed,
I'll only take a log or two,
And bring them back to warm us through,
And let the snow unmake my tread.

©Todd Layton Eckard

Bluebird, Come My Way

Bluebird come my way,
come sing to me this day
tell me tales of skies and sails
of dawns and eves and nesting trees
and winter’s morning melodies
though time and fate surround like thieves,
bluebird, come my way.

Bluebird in the snow
your flight ‘neath thorny row
sweep the flakes last nightfall raked
amidst December’s gentle quake
strong threshing wings to overtake
and promises made I, soon, may break
bluebird in the snow.

Bluebird on the cusp
of wood and field and husk
the course ahead lay spoil or dread
shall in your sleep and quietude bed
and I and regret sew common threads
as well-worn planks that sleeve the shed
bluebird on the cusp.

Bluebird come my way,
we’ll watch the pine field sway
you in flight and I in stand
the coming winds to bite my hand
but carry you to hopeful strands
in disregard of my commands,
bluebird, come my way.

Geraldine

Geraldine
worked her fingers down to bone and prayer,
palms mapped with flour, soap,
and the careful reckonings of survival.

She buried three husbands
without burying her kindness.
Grief knew her name—
so did endurance.

Her voice was never loud.
It did not need to be.
It moved like worn cotton—
soft, certain, unfrayed by bitterness.

In later years
faces slipped from her like loose buttons,
days folded in on themselves,
rooms forgot why she had entered them—
but love never misplaced its address.

She loved hard.
She spoke soft.
She held fast.
She ran the race.

Jesus was not a word she wielded;
He was the way she rinsed a dish,
the way she pressed a hand,
the way she loved her neighbor,
the way her fingerprints
lingered on everything she touched,
and the echoes of her heart
still ringing In the Garden.

In heaven’s ageless ledger,
her name is scribed eternal—
not in headlines,
but in margins,
written steady,
written true.
Sealed, until we meet once more.

Geraldine.

Branches: The Meeting Creeks

Carefully and diligently
I planned each step, though
my errands swept-undertow
ebb and flows beneath;
ice layers breached
in January’s frigid flow.

Moss Run and Mahoning:
two creeks; one atoning,
the other disowning
my purpose and my pride.
I’ll put aside my icy stride
and beg the isle’s condoning.

Shall I hopscotch stones
and cross alone
where deep ends, prone
to swirl and hide?
Or cross where riffles subside
and steal both pride and throne?

No! I’ll swing my axe
and forge my tracks
across the tree-bridge stack.
No frozen bath-
no ruined path-
afoot to my calling shack.

Aged branches pouring good
in mountain laurel wood,
convinced me as I stood
plotting and beating,
almost retreating-
beyond the meeting creeks.

©Todd Layton Eckard

Catacombs of My Heart

In ruins deep, dark, and still
my chambered heart
lies weak and ill—
a vault of schemes
and bitter will,
enchains
this dead man’s soul.

Within sealed depths
concealed disgrace,
distilled in secret
and guarded space;
a crawling vine
wove in my chest,
slow-binding bane
to carve my rest.

My youthful thoughts,
my crooked pleas,
a stage set wide
for lies and thieves,
that drives away
the least of these—
each beat a coffin nail.

The heart is madness,
a poisoned spring
that casts its death
in everything,
leaving no room
for love or offering
to flood this chasmic pit.

These sullen halls
that haunt each breath—
the Prince of Heaven
came to shut
to death these crypts,
these caves of flesh
that curse my every step.

The sins I’ve wrought,
the webs I spun—
His crimson flood,
His wounded Son,
breaks the seals,
undoes what I’ve done,
and calls me from the grave.

The True Vine comes
to rid death and doom;
His blood, a fount,
to rend my tomb.
Each pulse revived,
each shadow chased—
beautiful salvation,
grace untraced.

From ruins deep, dark, and still
my chambered heart
ever longs to dwell
in mercy’s reign,
His perfect will—
a city on a hill, unhid.
Be still, my heart.
Be still.

The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it? ~Jeremiah 17:9 ESV

Elegy for Autumn

numb
from perfection
autumnal tints surge
blunt preface to October
an abstract, a sentence penned
again and again, page after page
the sky as the paper
the clouds cursive words
careful love letters
as autumn
turns.

words
the leaves
scattered by wind
breaking promises – secrets slipping
consequences unfold without us, within
they tumble, careening one off another
barren trees onward watch
with anguished regret
Fall’s curtain
falls.

Leaves

In flutter passage for the ground
leaves dressed green the summer ‘round
I fall too.
In love with colors, piercing reds
fixed fast with orange and golden threads
October strands.
A quilt of auburn covers brief
its beauty course from every leaf
the yarn unfolds.
They’ll be but dust in days to come
of heaping ash, late autumn crumbs
so, you, and I.
Like rumors meant to wound the bond
‘tween what’s to come, and what has gone
trees giving dead.
Still, I and you in failing breath
as brilliant leaves unflinched by death
our morning comes.

As a Snowfall

As a snowfall white and clean,
redemption blankets ill-fated souls
a glowing hearth, a roaring flame
that wakes the dead and warms the cold
it shakes the dead out from their sleep!
recasting ravenous wolves to sheep.

Such beauty in a snowfall soft
stirs quietly, gently, toward the heart
as if reprieve and mercy bound
their calming antidotes impart
a crimson flow that floods so deep
to vilest offenders His promises keep.

A snowfall in its newness breathes
an air that swells pale-cold lungs
and fleshes bones dust-dry and still
and stows new songs on silent tongues
hymns of exuberance, of born anew!
resounding ‘ore mountains and universe through.

As a snowfall in morning tide brings
new life to the outcast abundant and free
a foretaste of glory – a Love so divine
a lasting salvation, so perfect, so sweet
yes, as a snowfall spills steady on pace
so, too, His faithfulness, His sufficiency, His grace.

The Winds of Calling

North winds came calling, urgent, hauling,
Fury to fell the trees, enthralling,
Disrupting midnight’s gentle lulling,
On bended knees I went, appalling,
From my bower-room, shadows sprawling,
To where the darkened hall.

They whirled in swift, sweeping, descending,
Howls unending, scowls offending,
Spectral chills, their reach unbending,
Bewildered corpse-roads wending,
A stark, foreboding message sending,
Cold moon-glow on my walls.

Their pressing march a solemn warning
Ere the distant tolls of morning,
Echoes bleak, my thoughts adorning,
Promises forlorning, sharply scorning,
All around my clutching grip forming
A tempest’s tightening thrall.

Within my sinews it set to carving,
Through thought and nerve its fingers starving,
My breath it bent, my courage halving,
Old dreads awoke, their pathways snarling,
Till sense and self lay torn and wavering,
At my marrow-core.

Whistling, wailing, piercing, chasing—
The winds alive, my senses interlacing,
Thought and heart in circles racing,
Cadence wild, pulse hastening,
Discouraging, displacing
Sleep that ever sought my mind.

Pounding, lashing, thrashing, beating—
Then suddenly, a slow retreating,
The winds in settled, unrepeating,
A calm, unsure receding,
As if the night itself were fleeting,
And left me only dreaming.

“An unbidden wind is a sly and unwelcomed visitor, bending reason and setting the imagination adrift in its unseen grasp.”

The Wolves of Waramora

Clothed in frozen crystal remnants,
bristled hides with frostbound grain,
aged with ash of gray and white—
my weakened sight recalls their reign.
The heavens bruise to midnight’s depth;
they came as kin, with vows profane—
the wolves of Waramora.

The trees bear witness, sealed in age,
older far than sceptered thrones,
these spectered hounds from mountain ice
move soundless from their shadowed roams.
Like chariots of fire across the vale,
they pass through fog where fear has bones—
the wolves of Waramora.

Their eyes are furnaces unquenched,
cast from citadels of stone;
each mark they leave a hollow psalm
the wind recites where faith is lone.
With patient fang and cunning step,
they claim the meek, the gilded, grown—
the wolves of Waramora.

From stolen wool and borrowed light
a quiet treachery is spun;
the prey stands armed with sudden teeth,
the hunt reversed before begun.
They topple flesh and fashioned walls,
by oath and hunger bound as one—
the wolves of Waramora.

They speak of seasons—fall and rise—
and weigh the soul with final breath;
in unbelief, the door made sure
to sealed descent and second death.
Yet writ with fire and winged decree,
the Lamb bides clean beyond all worth,
and seeks the wolves of Waramora.

They circle still? It shall not stand.
Their howls are stilled, their dominion ends.
No blood is spilled, no shadow holds,
for now the Lion’s voice descends.
With purging flame where none may tread,
He knocks—long-suffering, calls as friend—
to end the wolves of Waramora.

Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves. ~Matthew 7:15 (ESV)