The bones of a poem
lie beneath your skin,
anchoring each muscular stanza,
shaping the rhymes of left
and right, dancing
with the complicated riff of the brain punch-drunk on electrical impulses,
stamping jubilant feet
to the pulsing rhythms
of the fluid-bearing
vessels
and their
drum-beat
heart.
March lies covered under thick snow.
Brown leaves have clung all winter to the stunted oak,
rustling loudly as bitter wind drives
across the tundra of the yard. They will fall in spring.
Any day now, by the calendar.
The hare’s prints trace her hunt
for any not-yet-gnawed shoots above the waist-deep drifts.
We all hunt for the sun.
Then the magicians arrive, chickadees
and cardinals spreading their voices
over the iced-in world, pulling a slow change
from beyond the edges, their wondrous notes
unfurling the small silk squares of colour
the cold winter rolled tightly around our hearts.
I have finished striding through the day
and yearn now for small comforts
a familiar chair
a soft lamp
a half-read book
an old cat
Let go of the adventures
and the glad-handing
let the workers
return to their families
let me find my way to tomorrow’s courage
as night folds down
