AURORA BOREALIS

 

White patches litter lackluster fields,

pine hillsides – a seasonal quilt.

 

Cosseted bulbs, how limbs

long to stroke spring’s cheek.

 

Around the next bend, the lake.

Flurries carpet her crystal sheet,

 

sub-glacial currents,

creak and moan her thawing song.

 

In darkness I listen to

surround-silence, succumb

 

to nights’ spherical body

released to a full color concourse,

 

for those with tickets

to the midnight show.

 

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MIDDLE AGING

 

I think it’s not that bad but then things happen, like I say ‘no, I don’t want any salt with that dish’ and ‘I won’t be having any of those potatoes because although I used to eat potatoes and have always loved potatoes, now I shouldn’t eat them because they make me fat’ and it annoys me that it’s me that says this so I get up and walk to the washroom and suddenly I’m bumping into things, randomly, like bumping into old boyfriends, never sure what to say when or how. Along the way (to the washroom) I don’t bump into any old boyfriends, but I do bump into a bar stool and a counter corner and a young girl who is probably really a young woman but since I feel so old I call her a young girl and she smiles and I smile and she goes in and comes out – flushing, her tight stretch jeans lined up along her pencil thin legs just so and I say ‘this washroom is really cool, I love the way the water above the sink flows out of the wall like a waterfall’ and she looks at me like I’m a crazy woman, and I’m left looking at a reflection in the mirror of someone I vaguely recognize; my mother’s image, while the potatoes I ordered sit back at the table getting cold.

 

 

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NOTE TO AN OLD LOVER

 

It had rained that day you dropped by,
wine-toting grin lingering on your face
stranded in the doorway
inviting me to ask you in.

We drank. I almost always laughed,
deep purple dripping down my chin
licked off by the perpetual blue of your eyes.
Your index finger drew crop circles,
a wry simper nestling between.

Tonight carries the scent of juniper
tinged with pleasure pressed against this ache.

 

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ONCE

 

 

Once, when it was February
you tickled me under my
thick-as-sheep’s-wool fleece,
carried me over
snow mounds to silver ponds
where we skated far,
far across what seemed like
the edge of the winter, twirling
and racing, arms swinging
to and fro, while
cutting blades sliced the
coarse surface.
Now it is August.
We no longer skate, you
no longer play or tease or
clamber over snow heaped high
along the sides of roads, with me
weighted in your arms.
It is too hot now
and besides,
you left this place long before
shadows grew large in the midday
sun and icicles melted into
popsicles when the
ice cream truck began playing
its catchy tune.

 

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THIS ROCKY KNOLL

 

 

Crater’s cliffs
open to sea-letting beaches.
I breathe in desert dust,
skip stones onto a cactus covered plain.

Where will I be
in ten years time?

Here on this rocky knoll,
wrapped in a rattler’s hide,
singing to my fireside flame,
a crisp crescent dangling,
a rhyme in my pocket.

 

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