by Anne Valley-Fox

Roberts French—beloved poet, teacher, writer, outdoorsman, husband, father and grandfather—recently departed this world. A life-long hiker, Bob researched on foot and edited the Sierra Club’s Eighth Edition of Day Hikes in the Santa Fe Area (2016). He served on the NMLA board from 2016-2018; we very much miss him and his gracious ways. Bob’s poems honor the earth he so loved. Here are a couple:
A Day in March
One more day of clouds
the color of steel,
hardly a color at all.
On a day like this
any creature with half
a brain would linger
in the burrow, wait
for the sun, and sleep.
But I am sixty-five;
I know how light can fade.
I will go for a walk
in the woods, down
to that meadow
by the river, and there
I will dip my hands
into flowing waters
and remember who I am
and where the river goes.
Bosque del Apache
I remember the snow geese rising,
thousands, from the water,
sudden, startled,
white against the sky.
Watch, my son the birder
said. Something will happen.
And then the eagle struck
and dove to earth clutching
its delicate prey. I watched
the snow geese scatter,
thinking how innocence dies
in the beauty of this world.
A Day in March
One more day of clouds
the color of steel,
hardly a color at all.
On a day like this
any creature with half
a brain would linger
in the burrow, wait
for the sun, and sleep.
But I am sixty-five;
I know how light can fade.
I will go for a walk
in the woods, down
to that meadow
by the river, and there
I will dip my hands
into flowing waters
and remember who I am
and where the river goes.
Bosque del Apache
I remember the snow geese rising,
thousands, from the water,
sudden, startled,
white against the sky.
Watch, my son the birder
said. Something will happen.
And then the eagle struck
and dove to earth clutching
its delicate prey. I watched
the snow geese scatter,
thinking how innocence dies
in the beauty of this world.
Bob and Jenny (right - Picacho Peak)