Will I Wake In Spring?

I said the aspen was naked,

But maybe it’s me that’s naked.

The older I get,

The more naked I feel,

Like the aspen stripped by winter.

Its bare limbs I saw standing still

In the fog, are they my limbs?

How terrifying!

How vulnerable!

How lonely!

Will it wake in spring?

Will I wake in spring?

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In the Bleak Mid-Winter

“In the bleak mid-winter

  Frosty wind made moan,

Earth stood hard as iron,

  Water like a stone;

Snow had fallen, snow on snow,

  Snow on snow,

In the bleak mid-winter

  Long ago.”

The return of winter,

During Winter:

As we slept

It snowed eight inches.

Eight inches.

Enough to obliterate

The grass, starting to green.

I dreamt

Of being abandoned–

And woke to find

you’d been up since 4 am.

The House was warm,

As if the furnace

Had suddenly become efficient.

Too efficient, I thought,

As I watched the light

Gradually increase outside.

You see, there was no sun.

Not in this bleak mid-winter.

You’d say it was white,

But I’d say it was gray–

A tinge of darkness–

The unknown, like a fog

Near the barn.

The aspen,

Its white body–

elegant and erotic–

Naked in the snow,

Stripped completely bare

And framed by the fog–

Was so still.

Yes, it was still as death.

A corpse,

And, if it had started to dream,

It dreamt no more–

Unless, it too dreamt of being abandoned.

The Wind Speaks Winter

The aspen’s branches are bare,

The wind speaks through chimes:

Winter, winter, winter, it says,

As if it knows no other word.

Did it forget the crocus,

Its alien spathe piercing the ground,

petals struggling

To escape the cocoon?

Did it forget the wild irises,

Dotting the pasture,

Tall, elegant, blushed in plum?

Or, the branches

Heavy with apple blossoms,

And the apples,

The gelding ate from her hands:

Open hands, the juice of the fruit?

Today, it plays dumb.

The bare tree waves

Its empty arms,

While snow shifts and drifts,

And the outside chandelier

Swings like a crystal pendulum

Trying to divine,

Will the cold ever end?

While the wind speaks,

Saying, Winter,

Winter,

Winter.

A Valentines Day Poem for my Lover

You extend your right arm

For me to come in and lay down.

We’ve done it, like this,

At least five thousand,

Four hundred seventy five times,

The exact same, wonderful way.

And always,

You are the first to disappear,

Leaving me to your heart’s beating,

The rise and fall of your chest,

Its hair tickling my nose.

I think, should I die before you,

You will remember this,

And no lover will quite take my place–

Not in this deepest intimacy.

Did I say I love you—

Before you went away in dreams?

Did I say I love you?

 

 

A Valentines Song—for a past Lover

1

Your memory blows cold,

It chills me,

like a cold spring day.

It rattles my mind,

like a chime,

clanking away.

Our love turned from fire,

to a flower,

Than stone,

And like a rock,

the memory is cold —-

Chorus

You hear me,

you’re near me,

you’re bound in a prison–

The shadows of my heart.

I hear you,

I’m near you,

I’m bound—

There’s no pulling us apart.

2

They say be careful

what you fear,

and I feared a lot.

The fire of love can burn,

but cold-stone Love

does not.

You took me up,

like a leaf,

but you let me drop—

And now

your memory blows cold,

but the pain does not.

Chorus

3

I can zip up my coat,

put on my gloves,

and walk.

But I take you

with me,

like a snow-covered rock;

Into the spring,

into the summer,

into the fall—

Into the winter

The memory still calls.

Chorus.

Anesthesia

Is this what it’s like
To be dead? 

A big FAT blank.

Not even being able to think–

Is this what it’s like
To be dead?  

************

Nothing.

************

Nothing.

************

Nothing.

************

Hello!

************

Is this what it’s like 
to be born?

The whole world
In front of you.

Your happy places,
Spread like golden pastures

Just waiting for you to gallop through,
Thinking, singing, screaming–

Is this what it’s like
to be born?

Synchronicity: The Herd

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20170419_211840We must move together,
One mind, one soul,
One body, one purpose,
Says the herd.

We’ll bend our necks
To the ground,
Bite off blades of grass,
Like so: the Mustang,
The palomino mare,
The old sorrel gelding.
See how our heads line up?
Front, right legs forward,
One ear to the herd,
The other to the sky,

And bird sound:
The high pitch
Of the kildeer,
nesting in grass nearby,
The chattering of the geese,
The barn swallows,
returned to their nests,
Above our stalls.

We hear their song,
A composition,
Carried by the wind,
Through pine,
Through aspen,
Through crocus
And snowdrops.

We must move together,
One mind, one soul,
One body, one purpose,
Says the herd.

Flying Things

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1.

Under the wings of Canada Geese,

Rushed time:

 

Moments we wept

In our loss,

Wept in our fear,

Abandoned each other.

 

I stood alone,

Amid an ocean of dry leaves,

As the sky flew by in freedom,

And helplessness.

 

2.

How can I forget

That great yellow butterfly,

As big as a barn swallow?

 

It hovered around you,

Like a message

You wouldn’t hear.

 

Finally, it landed on your bare shoulder,

As you stopped work,

Leaned against your shovel,

 

Encircled of frail spirit,

And our children,

Chasing, laughing around you.

 

While I, woman in flight,

Watched silently from the back door,

Knowing I was letting you go.