TWO POST CARDS
WHERE EVERYWHERE WAS FAR
We went out of bounds twice
East then West, a quick duck
under the rope lifting it with a ski pole
as our skis slid into the pristine.
Still in solstice light, side swipe
of altered space cast shadows
of alpine trees. We had come
for these shade-lanes with our tiny
cameras, eyes behind
solar lenses aiding distortion.
Our hands, clumsy in gloves,
could only pretend to compose.
Wind caused flurries of crystal
storm and clouds hid the sun
at will. We gave ourselves
time to be this blind,
unmindful of shutter speed
and focus, recording light
we only guessed at,
two steps into wild.
31 December 2016
WET WINTER EVENING IN THE NORTHWEST
She reads to her husband in the living room
of Emmett Till, and I hear of it
when his poem arrives in the mail.
Where we live, Emmett Till
is a household name, but details
of his long night before the hanging
get murky. The poem in my mailbox also
praises a Danish teacher for his quiet
resistance and courage. So much
has been lost we thought we had won.
Strange fruit hanging from poplar trees,
for crows to pluck, Billie's song.
Reading aloud is a Victorian rite
freezing our accounts and computers.
24 December 2016