Monday, September 12, 2011


a white sheepdog silently beckoning
calling his flock to follow
covering the blue sky and the summer sun
with the dingy gray of their wool
a gardener
blustering through clothed in gray and black
angry he still deals gently with his plants
giving each an icy coating
then forgets them
and brusquely
leaves not returning forsaking them to their fate
a silent woman draped in chilling white
heavily burdened with her baskets of crushed ice
wielding her willow-bough broom
she brushes her burden across the streets and yards
smiling to see the children laugh and slide
she passes on

then comes the wind
from lonely icy planes she sweeps down
not understanding her own cruelty
even the sheep in the sky shiver at her
but I know she is waiting for me
to slip silently out of my prison
and come to her
to receive willing
the message of pain
she has brought:
for me,
there is no spring

(In defense of my teenaged self, please bear in mind that in Texas the first frost releases all the mountain cedar pollen, which made me sick. Constantly. It's hard to be cheerful when you spend most of the winter (and spring, and summer, and fall - I'm allergic to everything that grows in Texas) not being able to breathe)

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