Again – this is a poem in transition – I started it a few weeks ago on a very cold day. Today it is cold again and I revisited it, working on the warm part of the poem. I am still not happy with the ending or the title but here it is – in process….. Every third year Or When the snow flies off the trees Like white crows Disturbed by wind or intruders bursting up and out; When the doorknob frosts on the inside And bath steam Clings to the window freezing into Tiny rivers meandering always up, Tributaries of ice sparkling like giant snowflakes Caught in the ice age of the storm, In the dark days of winter when shadows Are long at noon, In the blue moon of January I dream of myself as a young woman Walking through damp moss In bare feet. A thicket lit with crepuscular rays; spotlights on fairy rings. The enchanted forest breathes warm soft exhalations Mixing with the must of old paper And India ink. Letters crack at fold lines Splitting the sentences declaring unending love Every day a picnic on the mountain With sardines and red wine Hard cheese on crusty bread cut with pocket knives. The sun burns our skin Frosty paintings melt Running down the glass in drops That sizzle on the wood stove The fire bright and hot Cats sleeping at our feet.
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