Rainy days and poetry.

Moody skies, snowflake obsidian warm from turning over in my hand, precious quiet only ever interrupted when Morley sighs at the rain. It is a most perfect day for the things I like – slow cooking, nesting, ignoring the clock.

Today’s very ominous weather is reminding me of a couple of poems I have written, about being a child and how much the change of seasons affected me then. I used to have nightmares about the wind alone – swooping me up, carrying me off.

I thought I’d share a couple of the poems here on my blog:

Spring thaw at Six

Spring thaw at Six
A new lake in the dip between
cousin and me
New birds that break icy quiet
The Grandfathers make proclamations
so loud and sudden that our souls rattle
Buckets, pots catch raindrops from a cracked ceiling
a matriarch sighs at a floor littered with basins
not knowing when I am older
that I will remember the water hitting tin
as a beloved symphony that rings in new life

Fields and distance

A field between us
Wild, an uninhabited no man’s land
where at night we’d run through
struck with fear at October’s darkness,
November’s silence —
The starkness of winter.

There was a boneyard there
where harvest, abundance, slow sunsets lived
In August, September —
The darkness meant lullabies
of frog, wind, leaf, goldenrod,
and we unravelled the light of each day as we slept

The footpath was a swift current
from one home to another
now bone dry from years of growing over, and apart
Seasons blend, no ceremonies border their comings and goings
Troubled by the same fear and wonder that once sustained us
Childhood is an artifact,
Now that we are older.


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