Winter’s here – minus four degrees last night and interesting ice crystals formation on the garden pond today.
we gather at the edge
white feathers falling
in the dark
staring into the void
we are alone
the children wave purple lightsabers
kitted out in knitted hats
adorned with pom-poms
there’s a sense of urgency
mother and child move quickly
the wrong direction
teenagers pace and stiffen into poses
words fade with the wind
the burning of wood
the Ivory Tower
the crackling of flames
taking hold the awe
exploding the shock
we gasp smoke
sparks rise shimmering bat-wings
it is beautiful
the stars weep green roses
silver snakes carved
in the perfect dark
a father thin and tired
carries his daughter
to the edge
holds tiny pink hands
in huge gloved fists
nuclear dots burn
in the emptiness
we hold the fire
and only the wind
HAPPY NEW YEAR 2020 to all my friends and supporters!
slices sky through my opening
death in slow motion
Happy Winter Solstice to all!
She drifted down Main Street,
shrunken and exposed
to the gaze of lacy twitchers.
She maintained a regal air,
head high, Liberty scarf fluttering.
Think panache, she thought.
Her expression was composed,
eyes cool as anthracite
and mouth dead as diamanté.
But sunbeams melted her frozen
cockles, dissolved her moody blues.
So why the tremor in her guts?
When she reached the Post Office
her feet puddled like jellyfish
and she slumped against the wall.
Her reflection in the window
was pale as January. Her face
had slipped to her waist.
With failing heart she understood.
The next day all that remained
was a dark stain and a scrap of Liberty.
The blizzard began, cherry blossom from a flame sky. The road home
vanished. Pink ice floes shape-shifted in the river, bumping
and grinding like clubbed seals. We tended the fire
and played strip poker. In bed you wore lipstick and a balaclava.
On the third day we tracked through the crystal forest. The valley
was a fandango of silence. I clawed at it with my bare hands.
You held your phone up high, immobile as the Statue of Liberty.
We returned to the cabin and played Scrabble with four letter words.
The windows became peepholes. I saw no footprints in the virgin drift,
only the farmer’s wife floating silver between the tree tops.
She was wearing a wolf jacket, her face upturned to the falling snow.
That night you thought you heard singing in the wind.
On your last day, you stopped speaking, stayed in bed, a tender huddle
of bones. I roasted meat on the log fire and drank Jack Daniels. I recited
the tale of our first New Year’s Eve, kissing in Times Square
while rockets fell. I could still remember the neon taste of your flesh.
Kindred spirits meet
in the blue of winter moon
and darkness retreats.