Two poems by Marge Piercy

Cellar Holes

Anemones sprinkle the cold ground

A scattering of pale blue stars.

They multiply every year.

Daffodils wave their trumpets

of gold; lemon and white.

It’s late April in late spring.

In ten days or so, if I walk

an old sand road through

woods, I can bushwhack

through trees and brush

to find cellar holes of houses

gone two centuries or more

by the scent of lilacs.

I think of Whitman. Here

were the former dooryards.

Other survivors lurk—old-

fashioned orange daylilies,

daffodils. All signs a woman

long ago cared enough

where she lived [perhaps

the husband gone whaling]

to plant her sweet flowers

to keep her company

to ease her rugged days.

Careful Now or Else

In old age, every mistake is costly.

Step off a curb wrong and you’re

In a clumsy lace-up boot for months

a bear cub stuck on your foot.

Sit in a draft, overdo shoveling