I wake to a cold, grey morning
and election news I do not like.
You would not like it, either,
but you do not hear it. The ashtree is filled with waxwings, red
berries scattered on the ground.
Here, winter approaches; there,
where you are, it is a differentseason, in that mysterious land
of ice. I am four days older
than you, there on the white
bed. I have never seen yourface. You have never touched
my hand. Around this world,
candles of many languages
burn, to light your way.
« A Reminder | Main | Cats are Democrats »
04 November 2004
Snapshot 03 November 02004
For Árni Ibsen
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THE CHANGE
The day after the election
winter strikes.
Our morning tears
weaken the sun
like watery glass.
By five in the afternoon
only the most distant sky
glimmers pale blue
through the reedy trees,
tall and leafless.
It will be a cold dark night
with worse to follow.
The onset was too sudden
to even think of blankets
or stacking wood.
Maybe in a week
the shock will wear off
and we'll remember
how to breathe
so it doesn’t hurt.
Posted by: Rachel | 04 November 2004 at 06:44 PM
Sharon
You wonderful job with that poem. Hope your friend gets better.
Posted by: Cathy | 05 November 2004 at 04:36 PM