From Year One

Darkness before frost, the moon
humpbacked among clouds.
Hands chilled, I search in the wet leaves,
pull green tomatoes from the stalks.
Minute by minute morning sun
inches into the shadows,
frost flowers vanish, dew
glitters on the cold green grass. 
A dozen white geese at rest,
their necks turned, beaks
tucked among feathers:
twelve white pillows in a field,
all on a Saturday morning.
Nearby black sheep graze. 

—David Helwig

David Helwig (1938–2018) was the former poet laureate of PEI and the author of more than thirty books or fiction and poetry. Reprinted with permission from Year One (Gaspereau Press, 2004).

Each month Bren Simmers selects a poem by an Island poet for The Buzz.