Sunday, October 30, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
The poem from Alaska of course, where I spent over 20 winters, but as I ponder other cities close to the water, far from the sunshine of Santa Fe I contemplate how to manage my sometimes limited and unreliable artful resources to spend part of the winter south of the border, part of it closer to family, art, travel, etc. but I'm optimistic. Life is good.
Thick With Cream
Windows across the street read them like words:
loose, not connected, solid, not square, rectangular.
A billboard of darkness endorses a simple statistic
of life by north: November, December, January.
Not wind hurling from a frozen sea but a soft gray stillness
uncovers winter bones layered inside cold blue denim.
Cowering beneath silk underwear doughboy skin:
pudgy, cracked, already thick with fat. Itchy,
before the holidays.
You celebrate by drinking coffee thick with cream
and green tea with cake late into the afternoon.
You honor a social moment, a conscious thought,
a ritual to commemorate decision. Light a candle
to acknowledge life inside this blackness
that brings stars too brilliant to count. At times
the ocean wind is still as death but often it blazes,
not flame but a severe penetration of memory.
To remind us, the lazy and the sane tucked indoors,
beneath our covers thick with too much that has been lost.
Many survive intact with sameness. And others do not.
Those angels of risk that walked to the edge of the east,
and waited for sunrise.