“Love is a journey through waters and stars, through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning, two bodies ruined by a single sweetness” Pablo Neruda
Between wake and sleep I feel the brush of your hand as cold as winters breath. I thought I glimpsed you in lightning strokes through my window, heard your steps come and go down halls still echoing departure as night slips away the mist of yesterday receding over the lake of time.
So that you may see what is left of me I’ve etched your eyes to mine.
Dismembered by scythes of devastation we scatter like autumn leaves.
You go where gravity pulls you, disappear through shimmering veils or wind
down my cheek like teardrops settling in the hollow of my throat, conscious
fingers of stars gliding over hoarfrost fields or weeping willows sweeping an ice capped pond.
art by Brad Kunkle
The world is wintry blue.
Vast and still yet there
is no comfort in the quiet.
The wolf inside me shakes
the snow from her fur,
travels through dark timbered
forests and blue gray mountains.
There are others moonstruck,
dusted with the same shine.
Together we trace a midnight
hover of crows unaware.
Winter does not empathize
with withered branches or
displaced birds fleeing waves
of frozen breath.
Her howling wind is a laugh out loud and
she hasn’t the grace to cover her mouth.
A tease of holly and evergreen flicker
at the curve of billowed thighs
glistening folds of hallowed mounds
drift in other worldly sighs ensnared
in her exquisite binds.
art by Karol Bak
The earth is powdered snow.
The sun rises in myriad hues.
Nightingales refuge in my closet
to mourn December’s last refrain.
Contrails light the wings of Jays
that flit beneath the lit doorway
settle softly into January’s chill
Shelter in a pale winter bed
“One day we will learn to give and receive love like an open window and it will feel like summer everyday”
Translation by Bernd @ Neues Vom Hutschi
In December the pines still ooze resin.
Lofty crows flit about the snow covered trees,
wisteria once so pleasant choke the burdened trellis,
their summer petals decompose on the rusty gate.
In the branches of evergreens huddled lyrebirds
sing cantilenas, create the finest opus
for my ears.
Below the angry clouds my hands reach
to the heavens awaiting downy verses to fall
like feathers in my outstretched hands.
I remain unwritten, a journal of blank pages
left abandoned by a woman feigning nonchalance.
My eyes are a brooding storm,
the deepest night without a dawn.
In the forest a nightingale sings
her song of solace
to make it easier to bear.
Lynn Gould art