(Excerpts from the forthcoming collection, “Echoes from the Hills”)
1.’Twas the Night Before
Massive milestones skipped
Atop the backs of ripples
Rushing in a pond―
The little pebbles scattered
Along the pondshore.
The pond has frozen over, and I
Have walked across it―or
Felt I have.
There goes a chime at this midnight hour―
Who rings at this hour?
The wind whispers at my window,
But it is not the voice
I’m familiar with.
It is a new voice, bred
From eavesdropping atop
The eaves of a dark, slender steeple,
Dressed in a white lace gown
With a long tail that hangs from the eaves,
Dropping but not touching
The grey cobbled streets,
Where women in great brown coats,
Collars popped,
Swish and slosh galoshes
In a sprinkling of snow,
Having their every word captioned―
Visually captioned in white mist
Under the yellow fog of a winter dusk.
There comes another at this midnight hour―
Chime!⸺Chime!⸺Chime!
Who rings at this hour?
The house breathes the laughter of people,
Who with bobbing heads float
From room to room,
Kitchen to couch,
Conversation to conversation.
Resurrected stories pinch childrens’ cheeks,
Turning them red.
Get some more plates―more plates!
Drinks swirl in cups as dizzy people twirl,
The envious falling flakes watching from
The window copy their graceful dance.
Uncles with aunts have arrived alongside
Aunts with uncles―and little bundles
Of cousins to add to the heap
That has spilled over into a blur of
Fusion-propelled, constant, rambunctious motion,
Like the wisping waltz
The translucent grey of chimney smoke
Performs on this boisterous night,
When all hearts pound in silence.
- Marriage Morning
The winter sun’s afraid to cry;
Its tears freeze before they can leave the eye.
O, beam into my eyes and fall through
The yellow fog of my mind!
My heart has already been illuminated.
The sun is tired as it crawls out
From its dark, earthy blanket.
The sun is embarrassed―marriage morning―
And nearly late; its cheeks have turned red
At the sight of the fair, frigid wind
Blowing a kiss.
From my window, I see
A new dusting of snow atop dark roofs
―a heather-coloured nether―
The great sky has thrown itself over a couch.
We are below its bodily weight.
How heavy?―too heavy!
How heavy!―too heavy!
They sway with my stir.
They cover the granite floor.
I straddle my legs, wooden
Like oars, through the husks of shoes,
Waiting in port at the front door.
III. The Golden Close of Love
Here comes the
Father of the bride.
Here comes the
Father of the bride.
Step⸺stop―
Step⸺stop―
Step⸺step⸺stop.
Pupils shimmer like the golden drinks
In every hand, swaying from side to side in story.
The callous music, once stepping down the aisle
Like it were Gaston with ego-bloated chest,
Now whimpers in the faint echoes behind the beast―
Wild laughter.
Joy beams with blaring light from every face.
But past the round isles
of white-top tables,
Past the hands that hang out in points
And gestures,
Up upon
Some distance stage,
There sits the bride,
Who only sees
Her husband and a
World yet to be.
