Streaks of white flash past my windshield
like I’m entering hyper-space,
hoping not to be hit by space debris
(or other cars)
’cause that’d end my trip real quick, wouldn’t it?
No one really likes driving the highway home
through a snowstorm.
Where’s Han Solo when you need him?
The spring of a new adventure
has been wound up.
It twitches, waiting,
ready to explode into excited possibility.
New winter boots
ready to brave the storms
fake dead animal rising from their depths
a warning to wandering acrylics or polymids
the woods are not safe for the likes of you,
when it’s new boot hunting season.
.
.
My new Sorel boots- found in the 50% off rack. (Probably because of the fake fur tops?) My last Sorels I purchased in 1986, but when DH painted the front door in the garage this summer, he re-coloured them for me into ‘red-pink spray’. Time for an update, I think. The old ones don’t owe me anything! I confess, I am contemplating taking the poodle clippers to the overgrowth, though…
Listen to the rain
clicking against the windows
thudding on the roof
washing away whatever was waiting
yesterday, and cleaning for tomorrow.
snow falling
between the rain
the pavement becomes a black hole
sucking out the light
I return hoping
but the house is cold
and I must find
my own dinner.
They listened to the call for glory and honour
marched away with smiles on their faces,
found horror in mud and blood
found sacrifice in trenches:
. sacrificed youth
. sacrificed lungs
. sacrificed sleep
Returned without friends
who call through the years
echoing in the quavers of The Last Post
of glory wrapped in mud,
of honour paid in blood.
First snow
falls outside,
but I focus on spring
blooming on my ottoman
stems set in Aalto’s iconic vase,
a miniature Finnish lake,
and knit.
.
.
This is an Iittala vase designed by Alvar Aalto in 1936 and made at the Iittala glassworks factory in Karhula, Finland. Once upon a time, I lived in Karhula. (I learned to knit there, actually).
I’m here in my office,
not looking forward to this meeting,
shivering, despite my wrap,
thinking how I’m much rather
be wrapped by you.
In half a V,
a line of five geese flies to the lake.
Moments later,
another half, line of eight
flies from the lake.
I’m waiting for the perfect V of twenty
or thirty birds, but times have changed
and half the flock
must choose to take the bus
these days, or perhaps, to walk.
It didn’t touch in the right places.
It didn’t curve to the swells.
It didn’t dive into the depths
And yet it filled him up,
devoured him,
made him whole.
Shawn L. Bird 