A Vermont year marked by long cold months, woodpiles, worn boots, and the brief weeks when seed trays and early vines finally push through.
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They say Vermont has two seasons: winter, for which we insulate, stack wood, set aside funds for other fuel, fill cupboards with applesauce and beans, examine last year’s boots for “good enough” or “got my money’s worth” and two months of poor sledding. You should laugh now because the flip side grows grim. Gardeners, determined to tend the land and celebrate color, and to raise from seeds green vines bearing gold and crimson fruit, to honor bright rows of carrot tops with orange roots thickening below—they too mark a long season. The seed catalogues stack up in December. At mid March a sunny windowsill’s crammed, tiny sprouts competing and climbing. In May I test my worn knees digging rocky soil— now September hovers, hints of autumn chill, apples blush and sweeten like kisses from an old beau. In darkness I dream of past years’ problems, wake to evidence of carnage. Deer visited the night beds. Gorged, with gusto. Pail in hand, I spend my morning gleaning. Gathering. Saying aloud, “I’ve got to bring what’s left inside.” Soaking last year’s jars in sudsy water, heating the canning kettle. Confronting the calendar, counting days. Deer will retreat when hunting season opens.
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✍️ About the Authors
Beth Kanell lives in northeastern Vermont among rivers, rocks, and a lot of writers. Her poems seek comfortable seats in small, well-lit places. Her collection Thresholds is due in early 2026 from Kelsay Books.
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So pleased to share this poem with Written Tales! Bundle up, folks, it's cold out there.