Winter Sap
She picked up the spoon. It was heavy as a grave.
In her hand, it trembled, shifting the chilly air.
So easy to sit at table while daylight fades.
So easy to feel the darkness rising, a strange
winter sap. Here is the door of memory, its rusty
lock and hinges that creak. Here is the door
of emotion. See the red pools spreading thin.
The door of reason is jammed. All around,
a solemn music plays. There by the window,
a small girl, delighted and surprised by the full moon.
Working with a Mirror
Imagine there’s a man working with a mirror
that can see where you will be tomorrow.
You will be here, watching from a side street.
So cold again. Your warm coat, your watch cap
and a hood. Still your eyes water as wind
scratches at your face.
In the mirror you see a cabin
by the side of a lake.
You see a fox, and then six or seven deer.
They look up at you, and when you stay still,
they mingle for awhile, then scamper downhill
towards the water and the wood.
The man with the mirror is gone,
he has looked over his shoulder and bowed low
to a woman whose hair blazes in the sun.
She has turned to look at you, and in that instant
you know what you will see in her eyes.
She is mirror and flame.
In the depths of her glass — shadow and nothing more.
Waiting for the Stars
Our names were swallowed by the cold.
No one knew this would happen,
not even the boys who spent daylight
in the snow.
Even in the mountains, there were echoes,
there were rumblings above the trees.
One night we stayed behind
when everyone else went to the bar.
We listened to the wind as it sang
to the rough little pines.
I wouldn’t call it sweet music,
no, not that melody of sorrow and ice.
It was beautiful to be there with you,
the two of us listening, waiting for the stars.
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