OUR YEAR WITHOUT SUMMER. 1816
from Sanctuary, Vermont
Every month there was a frost.
Frozen birds fell rigid from the sky.
Shorn sheep perished where they stood.
The corn crop failed, as did the grain.
Even Mrs. Moore, who heretofore had put on airs,
bowed her head in thanks for hedgehog stew and nettles.
In June, when Prudence Lexter froze while fetching wood,
I took her seven children in, poor spindly dears.
They died, all but the oldest girl, when the sickness came.
It struck us like a drunkard’s blow.
Boys took up spades to help George Franklin dig the graves,
but the stunned ground would not break.
That smooth-skinned Pastor, up from Boston,
blamed it on our sins,
on our youngsters stealing kisses
in the birches down by Black Plum Lake.
A God who wields his anger cold?
I do not hold to that.
I say we are a frail and faltering flock
cast out into this wilderness of rocks and wind.
The touch of skin to skin
is all we’ve got.
I’d rather praise the blood
than curse the heart.