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.

Jim Bodeen

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.

Jim Bodeen

24 December 2016