Lines Drawn from Greening Winds

Walking along with old friends
our shadows mingle.

Cold, and God is a dog's nose, is a rock, is moss, is
a chickadee singing in blackberry vines. Bared thorns.

In the garden something new claws my thoughts.
Something more. In full berry, too.

Those droplets hanging [pendulous] from the rosy branches
of stunted maple [ornamental] taunt the fist of winter.

What an immense and empty space now the Douglas fir is gone,
and me, keening after its beloved shape against the sky.

In the dark pools of your eyes snow does not stand a chance
light grows even shorter in the small rooms of your words.

What if there were only words to give at this dark time
what if we only craved light.

Night forces its dim boundary on the sighted;
makes the heron a vague question mark, posed.

Reading lamp draws puriri moths to windows
hands-width luminous green fairy wings-quivering.

Lines drawn from greening winds fall on the silent page,
assert themselves, flirt, delight to surrender another construct.

In all our ways we are striving to know you
just as, in all your ways, you struggle to show us your face.

In early morning dreams I cleared mind and heart of old resentments
woke to Winter Solstice shortest day most magical night.

Nice house, good dog, a well behaved husband.
What else could a gal of 50 ask for?

Cons eschew stats, invent unicorn jails.
The homeless find warmth from government ducts.

The shuffling lines patient for bagged or plated food-
anyone of us may be the giver or receiver tomorrow.

I offer my breakfast booth to the vocal son
for his elder, bent over a walker, with unravelling voice.

Dark energy between stars obscure as anyone's best definition of God.
At the top of the world hoboes walk in the cold under green swirling skies.

No need for more prisons, shining planes for making war;
enraptured, let us move forth, cherishing the Earth.

Mandarin orange, nubbly soft skin so easy to peel.
Bright juicy segments, small sunbursts on a pale rainy day.

Superfine sugar enrobes citrus caecilians
hoary peels dressed for their glamorous cassata interment.

She licks the frosting off the leaf
eating winter up.

Small walnut boats balance on the tree,
their copper sails tip toward the new year.

As I dig wax stubs out of my menorah,
I brood about the crayons found in her coat.

This time of memory, of sketching a rough plan for the new year,
Of stepping out with you into the s/now.

Looking back, the path twists and slopes beyond a conclusive view
and trees quarrelling with wind cannot predict the turning ahead.

Gazing at full moon on snow, planning
time on pristine beaches...

Summer, family, the Argentine contingent;
Christmas, New Year's—fiestas in La Plata.

2012 new year blast of tidings for twelve months to come.
May it last beyond Mayan forecast of earthly demise!

Contributors:

Naomi Beth Wakan, Gabriola, BC
Linda Crosfield, Castlegar, BC
Barbara Black, Victoria, BC
Meg Torwl, North Vancouver, BC
Susan McCaslin
Katy McCuish, Nanaimo, BC
Jeannine Pitas, Toronto, ON
gillian harding-russel,. Regina, SK
Daniela Elza, Vancouver, BC
Sandra Lynxleg, Vernon, BC
Amanda Earl, Ottawa, ON,
Blokker, Burnaby, BC
Heidi Greco, Surrey, BC
Sidney Bending, Victoria, BC
Ulrike Narwani, Sidney, BC
Christina Shah, Saskatoon, SK
Mary Duffy, Vancouver, BC
Peg Duthie, Nashville, TN, USA
Judith Heron, Victoria, BC
Leanne McIntosh, Nanaimo, BC
Elsie K Neufeld, Abbotsford, BC
Kim Clark, Cedar, BC
Anne Swannell, Victoria, BC
Dorothee Lang, Stuttgart, Germany
Janet Vickers, Gabriola, BC
Penn Kemp, London, ON
Franci Louann, La Plata, Argentina
Patricia Anne McGoldrick, Kitchener, ON