Sunday, June 03, 2007
last winter's quest
once, we children
set out together on the golden road
across big prairie…
among the stalks of goldenrod
& queen anne’s lace,
hands rose: pale & insipid,
menacing our flanks
swiftly along to the mother
tree haven on thin soil
fallen
branches caressing
being consumed
by buttery toadstools
we climbed to breathe…
a potion of
beard hair and fresh blood
nursed the wounded
she provides the finest relief,
but never from the scathing wind.
so provoked we came down
in the maple grove, home-work called:
the frame
was brittle silver poles
frapped with hemp &
slick orange twine
nearby, growling nihilists
with GIGANTIC scissors
had severed
piles of young cedar
perfect for to thatch our fort.
bare hands heaving
to burst the gin-flavoured tangle
the shelter emerging
a nook for
stashing treasure
but something treasured was lost…
the despair was instantaneous.
on hands and knees
skimming the duff
scanning through tears
for a precious ring of bone
we had faith, but no hope.
& just then, the hound
loped in
from a chase…
he has a head for such things
so the dreadful condition was spoken.
he panted,
ostensibly motionless:
a lazy eye
happened to glance over his spine…
there it lay!
on the ground
atop countless lifetimes of
shadows seldom considered:
a bleached but glowing circle,
rediscovered
& ready to go home.