It is Always Late Here

And so we dodge the rain-soaked
leaves as they fall – or we don’t;
regardless we approach the wallpaper-houses
plastered with autumn’s gore. We shed

the decay only to don this thin
skin naked to the stale heated air.
Here we sing the refrain “Amen, come
Thou long expected Jesus, come.”

December, you are the clothesline of souls
strung above the hearth. Above the fire
we drip with rain until we are clean,
dry and we with our voices are thin.

Silent night. We have no say in the matter.

The Boreal Wilderness of a Content Heart

We must be further North than we thought.

Where, by the maps haunted with sea serpents,

living, exulting, dancing, tremulous mysteries

hold back laughter beneath every leaf.

 

Like a child playing hide and seek,

biting her tongue not to squeal with delight.

 

The cold grips every nerve in every limb with every movement.

The cold reminds us how gloriously alive we are.

The steam of our breath, twisting in an aerial ballet

leaping deeper, and deeper into this forest,

both new and joyously familiar.

Like a lullaby in old age.

 

The blues and grays of the mist, interrupted.

Swords of sunshine lunging from sky to untrodden earth.

Every leaf, swallow’s song and molecule of mist

 

is alive with silent, jovial anticipation.

Like the last breath before a dive into frigid waters.