I


Always the sensation of new life riding through forests with the windows down, remote mansions flickering like candles through the trees. We surge with Christmasses.


II


A branch breaks off. Green veins bleed into air. All the passers-by in the garden pause, a sudden frost of a stare. A late pear lets go of its stem, its bruising plump in turf muffled.


The scene turns over like a leaf before it falls, sleepers


almost awakening. Their hearts— stone gardens raked by stooped, obedient man at dawn.


III


Traffic at a distance mimics geese, slow wheeling around of the long flocks. Pale green pries through our lids. We turn under the heaped snow of the blankets, searching again in the back alleys of sleep for wind that whistles thinner as if through a shrinking reed. Dreams recede, kettles ringing at winter’s borders, stones over old ice that skip and startle before they plunge. Our lids fly up, alarmed. That’s all. Morning comes into focus on the wall.


26


Winter/Spring 2012 greenwomanmagazine.com


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