Ballad of the Vernal Equinox
Her cup of coffee’s getting cold,
she’s poured herself some gin,
her melancholy uncontrolled,
her winter-patience thin.
She pulls the curtain back to see
the bitter silver storm
that’s come to numb Sault Ste. Marie
when weather should be warm.
The snow has stopped, the moon shines hard,
the wind’s a gentle hush.
Coyote drifts into her yard,
out from the brittle brush.
He stares her down with raw desire,
his coat a map of scars;
The snow has stopped, the moon shines hard,
the wind’s a gentle hush.
Coyote drifts into her yard,
out from the brittle brush.
He stares her down with raw desire,
his coat a map of scars;
for after all, he’s stolen fire
and spilled a bag of stars.
I know a place where daffodils
are pushing through the ice,
he hints with all his trickster’s skills
and hopes she won’t think twice.
She smiles at him without a flinch,
reflection in her eyes,
knowing she dare not give an inch
to one both mad and wise.
A flick of tail – and then he's gone
without a backward glance,
his one-time offer now withdrawn.
Too bad. No second chance.
Yet when the geese return and love
is nowhere to be seen,
she’ll scour the woods for traces of
those brazen spikes of green.
and spilled a bag of stars.
I know a place where daffodils
are pushing through the ice,
he hints with all his trickster’s skills
and hopes she won’t think twice.
She smiles at him without a flinch,
reflection in her eyes,
knowing she dare not give an inch
to one both mad and wise.
A flick of tail – and then he's gone
without a backward glance,
his one-time offer now withdrawn.
Too bad. No second chance.
Yet when the geese return and love
is nowhere to be seen,
she’ll scour the woods for traces of
those brazen spikes of green.
(from Lines of Flight, page 18)
No comments:
Post a Comment