of deep winter under cellophane?
Chased away from paradise by setting
the tree of life ablaze?
The winter has been unforgiving.
Returning back to the cold
makes one remember most. The bitter
cold carefully selects its days
and punishes you beneath its force.
Then there's forgiveness: the decision,
the solid stance of Spring promising
beginnings. Except old wintery days
froze you to the core during your
mid-western suburban childhood.
As did mine below the equator.
We are no different. But I exist
no more than supplying
a reflection, a forever willing audience,
someone who loves good fiction.
Forgive me? It's still days until the thaw.
I thank you now more than ever.
But you are more alive than I.
Fresh from the greenery--
brown fleshed bodies at your disposal.
I have grown pale and old. How do you
forgive the dead, a ghost that you
could once touch, but buried
deeper in the same avalanche?
Never transgressions on your part--
at least that can always be forgotten,
incessant white noise--you, from
the land of the living, of a perfect
wintery scene, and back of
the post card reads:
Wish you were here.
A lot does not exist in this plane
no matter what side of the world you are.
Bleak landscape, nothing ever grows.
Have you noticed? Only gleaming
ice castles, one who loves a story teller,
can keep you from being trapped
under the frigid weight of yourself.