Sweden, Far West

Sweden, far west –

where the lines intersect as they

quilt the globe. Solitude.

Something cold, like a child

born too early,

in December.

 

I am amidst the pine forests.

Have you felt the mountains

breathing between the trunks?

They whisper, Harsh winter.

 

My sister, a February child,

drives westward home.

We are winter’s children,

frost-kissed but rosy-cheeked –

like Christmas, only younger.

 

My finger traces a line on the globe:

February’s homeward journey.

Outside, summer grows old;

I am homesick for wintertide.

Mural on the Bedroom Ceiling

I’ve dreamt four nights of children,

but the long days teach me to give up

dreams of children, so these three nights

I’ve lain awake.

 

But what am I?

I am a hand resting on a doorknob.

I leave behind traces of oil on the locks I’ve tried

and left behind.

But what am I?

 

I am nothing compared to a child.

Look into my swollen grey eyes and tell me,

 

is there more substance there than in

cheeks rosied with laughter, the face of a baby girl?

Or will that miniscule finger that blesses my face

with its touch one day reach out for locks I’ve tried

and find them broken by a father’s hands?

 

The ceiling is unchanging these three nights, but

on it my eyes have painted scripture and promises;

laughter from lips resembling mine.