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And so the Sun beings wakened from their naps and sprang up spreading their wings and rose to the Sun to do his bidding. And though it had been foretold half the year would be dark and darkened for the sake of keeping dreams, the great Sun took mercy on them, and called on his followers. When the darkness came and the clouds showed their stony faces around the edges of God’s sky then came the dwarves pouring from their homes like a hundred ants crying to the Sun, “do not forsake us!” It was the First Winter. With thanks to Maria Howe, for her poem, What the Living Do, as inspiration for this piece.
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I lie on my back and fill my crinkling eyes. Running my hands through your hair the way you like it makes you cry. Off the beaver dam and spider webs and the American Woodcock with its dutiful snort. where the peepers scream the sunlight down and it glances My neighbor lets me visit this place behind her house. I change your soggy drawers and pull blister boot backs over your heels, read to you and cry, for you? He did say to me once, in awe, and the most amazing partĮven on the lonely days when I stream your hair with dry fingers do we weed our own broken smiles or ever weep for some eternal soul? Down by the salamander bed. Toe-dipped and spread-eagle all across the swamp. Where an eye crinkle peers me beyond reflection. Raise my aching eyes and fill up with the maple buds dottering the skyĪnd the laid back sun gazing down side where the salamanders sleep in the dusky dark weed deep in space. Trying to cherish in the video store window. And reading that poem, What the Living Do. Running my hands through your hair the way you like it makes you cry because no one has touched you in so long. And got up to walk down the road with soggy drawers so mom and the neighbors laughed. This morning you sat on the lake edge and wove the ruffle-edge sand in and out with a smooth stick watching the piles disappear. The kind that rub your heel black and blister. Truthfully I shiver as I write maybe the snow is between my toes I shiver watch flakes of me fall to the ground half-eaten pictures clauses and spun where my heart tears where I burn in my sleep and turn over I am dreaming too waiting amidst rose and magenta for spring pools and summer lakes and friends to come home. It is a quilt for dreaming like the black bears.
STORYSPACE WHEN PATCH
Then there is a ribbed patch like a saddleback caterpillar torquoise and corn and there is a heavy sleep patch like the night when I am alone and a string across it like maybe the conjunction or a sliver the moon lady pulled out of the sky She wishes she was a snowwhite bear buried there so deep in the snow I am touching now a patch like that now a white angora patch on your quilt the kind from which you would never want to fold away The inky sound of release as black wet rises slickering my shuffling surfaceĪnd tell stories the things belonging to the people I love tell stories to me they spend time with me while you are away like the bears who sleep now until Spring
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When it’s dark I can only hear the splinter one, I love it even when it’s not there like the beneath me ice When I wake the world lies parceled unbundled at peace no longer sizzling with the strain of friction. It was Saturday two weeks ago we walked to the lake and it was puckered: drippling rip born ruffles of rainĪnd in the expanse of the frozen water there were windowsįringed with stifled fish and their mouths wideĪnd we both wanted to go in there but as have I lately learned raingear is not lake proof.