These notes, so sudden and sad –

lemon and raspberry;

I sit on an Adirondack chair,

wrap-around porch in New Hampshire,

where I’ve come to hike –

but this is now evening;

the sky over these White Mountains

spills gold and rose; a breeze

catches me.  I sip my coffee,

shiver in my grey tee and jeans;

I am barefoot.  These notes

in my head – Blind Willie Johnson’s

Dark Was The Night, Cold Was The Ground,

an old chill of slide guitar and moan.

I want to know: why?  Why here,

away from the jackhammer and shove

of the city?  But, of course,

we take it with us, wherever, our past,

because it lives in us, always.

These notes, sudden and sad,

slip and jangle; dampen my face and tee.

And now a bedtime story,

read to me so, so long ago, finds me –

Sendak’s Where The Wild Things Are.

I stand and go inside,

to a crowded long table, set for dinner.

A tossed salad to start,

then pan-seared brook trout in lemon sauce,

brown rice and green beans,

raspberry pie and coffee for dessert.

We talk of the day’s trails:

the creek and the mud;

the birch, the brambleberries, the Northern Flicker.

David C. Waxman is a poet whose debut chapbook, Mostly Round, But Rough, offers an intimate exploration of selfhood and connection. Written with humility and a keen eye for the overlooked details of daily life, Waxman’s work transforms small creatures and ordinary objects—blue jays, sparrows, clover, even a pebble—into profound symbols of resilience and meaning. His poems weave introspection with literary musings on figures like Freud, Marlowe, and Spade, while also grounding readers in vivid, tactile imagery. With lines such as “I find a poem in my applesauce,” Waxman reveals a voice that is both playful and deeply reflective, inviting readers to savor his work as lessons in seeing the extraordinary within the ordinary.