an old writer and his words

  • UNSHOVELING

    There is much to love here,not the least of which is the lackof snow always needing to be shoveledwhen your back is most sore,when you need to be somewhereon a schedule the clouds chose to ignore.But the one thing you cannot find,the thing you never expectedto be that which you most missis the polychromatic season.For…

    Lou Faber

  • LEAVING

    They don’t do that here,the leaves do not demand to be seenonly in their chosen seasonsand their palette is self-limited.There is no budding in spring,no malus or prunus throwing offwild cascades of white and pinkpainting the ground around them.There is no riot of coloras summer retreats and winterplans its eventual arrival,blazing reds and oranges,yellow, ochers…

    Lou Faber

  • A FROSTY RECEPTION

    I truly wish Robert Frost was still aliveso I could ask him where he foundthat yellow wood of his poem.The woods I know are mostly pinein the Adirondacks, or mixed hardwoodsand when autumn arrives they greet itin shades of green, red, orangeochre and yes, some yellow,but hardly enough to givethe forest that titular color.And even…

    Lou Faber

  • THE ANCIENTS

    Night and the ancients retreatto a dark corner of their celestial prisonfrom the promised arrivalof the yellow dwarf from whichthey know we demand a presence. We ignore the ancients now,ignore those who cast theminto their prison, ignorethe acts for which they werebanished, care only to name them,and they know that our recognitionis their only grasp…

    Lou Faber

  • HERE TO THERE

    It ran, got me from point Ato point B, often with a fewstarts and stops, alwaysbegrudging, and a ghastlyshade of yellow that helpedexplain why I could afford itin the fist place. The windshield wipers diedperiodically, so I avoidedrain when possibleor accepted a soakedor frozen arm when not. Eventually the topof the carburetor came loosebut Double…

    Lou Faber