Winter Waiting

potentillabranch

Small felt smaller still after

being buried alive, wrapped

Egyptian style in layers

bred of cold desperation.

*

Much energy was wasted

fuming, whining, recounting

tales of those whose days were filled

with blue skies and toes in sand,

Paradise lost; squirming drove

Small deeper into her grave,

tied icy anchors to hopes

that hell had frozen over.

*

Large watched in compassionate

silence. Grieving. Waiting for

Small’s heart to thaw. He sent his

love in diamonds, reflective

prisms in hues carved by age-

old mysteries into shards

of brilliance, setting each stone

with a jeweller’s practised eye,

glowing treasures at her throat.

*

He waits still. Small sags, sulky,

snow-blind. But patience lives where

love glitters; Large wipes her tears

with rainbows, crowns her mornings

with gentle soliloquies

cooed by mourning doves,

harnessing the Chinook winds

to end her hibernation.

The Bold and the Beautiful

rudbeckia bud

 

I view you with scorn.

Pitiful, I label. Naive beyond belief.

Do you not feel it in your bones,

this Frost creeping, cadaverous

mongrel, seeking your flesh?

No one who knows what

Saskatchewan winter can accomplish

would proffer innocent bud,

sacrificial lamb to ego’s altar.

Or do you know exactly what you offer?

Scorn spars with Pity,

until a third enters the ring –

Disbelief.

Do you bloom in spite, or to spite?

Death may just be the mother of

all necessary re-invention,

the Holy Grail to this Holocaust.

I see.

I know.

Tears trace my ruptures,

draining immature ideas,

congregating on your petals

where they christen you

Bold.