poets awake

old moss clings fast to a frozen wall

choked by the cold slow growth stalled

gardens don't till well before a thaw
tines crawl across the frozen earth
tickle the stone but force no root
the northland yearns for spring's rebirth

flames of unoiled lamps flicker and fall
their sooty fragrance laquers the wall
the empty glass a reflecting vent
its ring of boasting paid and spent
paint won't stick if it's too cold to harden
if the artist's brush lays dormant too long

root cellars reveal a yearly spoil
apples, ginger, and potato peels

unmailed poems never submitted

a late season frost slows a second crop

of summer love odes yet to be spun

poets troll for verses to fill white spaces
caress their bibles in search of their elijah voices
unmelted snow appears in untrodden places

the writer's sword bleeds fragmented phrases

skyrockets surprise on long lit fuses

in her dream she hugged the dead
arrows stuck to the bedboard head
sewn in dreams hang on by a thread
friendly faces and warm embraces
they were ready for her second coming
as he moved through the forest
a one woman warring party
her cup of sleep filled with cream and honey
they greeted her when she finally found them
glad was she although some were missing
she felt as if she were celebrating an anniversary
toasting them with coke and warm brandy
a suicide stood waist deep in a river's pool
a poet misplaced and unread in grammar school
an arc of angels stood behind a barbed-wire fence
it kept them from the icy river's edge
they hummed the tune her mother sang the night her father left

he spit his way down the front porch steps
on the way to town to love the woman
who had halfed her mother's favors and nightly burden

she hums the lyric between bedroom coughs

morning voices escape and make no sense
like dreaming of the dead and missing
whose visage she sees in the marshland clearing
a mirage in the fog on a saharan morning
she hides behind a modesty curtain while dressing

last night she bathed in sandalwood
by candle light in the extra room
she was late laying warm skin on cool cotton linen

she could not find the words to paint the aurora borealis

the stainglass dawn unfolds white and colorless

the smoke of burning pine tastes like citrus on her lips

her quilted children awaken and emerge

from their mangrove dreams and tropical oceans
unaware of how much the heat could burn them
unaware of the mirage that's coming toward them

she hears the sounds of the northland dawning

the smell of sandalwood from her bath still lingering

the water fowl are returning from the south

she hears the call she thought had been hunted out
locals know the call but never report
when they see the beast from their back porch

once returning victorian from the iron grated bridge

she caught his ghostly horrid glimpse

followed his grendelesque prints

he left his graffittied prose
on the side of her barn
etched in the wood with clawing paws
he culled the lambs and then was gone

names of places she had never gone
names of the dead she embraced in sleep
names of the missing she kept in a secret place

she had second thoughts when she lit upon his yellow gaze

turning on the porch light, catching him by surprise
she felt the longing in his declining eyes
eyes that accept the win and loss as time goes by
eyes that held his treasures deep
far away from the hands of scavenging thieves

he watches in the shadows and knows her secret places

he feeds on hermits' poems and unpublished verses

he's learned the patience and stillness of an easy kill

he knows she needs to take water from the well
and coal from the bin for the stove

a few steps passed the barn the well
he'll corner her before she makes it back to the door

he waits with the answers she hates and adores

the sandalwood pervades the pallor of the cold outdoors
he had caught her scent many hours before
as the lathering sandalwood washed each crease and fold
its melody crept through the grated rafters

her step is answered by the creaking floor

that reminds her of the vengeful creature's lore

once he led the pack with hard and stern embellishments
when angry the fur rose on his back

he rolled in the heather of the highlands

napped in the meadow mallow of the lowlands
as a child she wandered too far from home
her mother warned not to walk the heath alone
a batchelor button blue coat of fur adorned
surrounded by weeping hemlock branches and white birches
they composed the loveliest renditions
of beasts, maids, and festivals
white gloves, gauntlets, and promenades
spoke of far off places and china gates
dragon's fire, gallant knights, and little boys
worldly harems and magical companions
places where every princess slipper fit her
in white she wore her innocence
but she was young and and full of play
and he left her keep her christian name

she undrapes the yellow curtain at the window
remnants left from some dress material
recalls the heather and the mallow
recalls how easy a foot slides into a slipper

she wraps her shawl tighter at the neck

to cover the bruising of her husband's supping kiss

bed bound by his night of laconic bliss

the yellow eyes stare back from a clearing

she opens her shawl, matinees her breasts
breasts that wet nursed the neighbor's kid
the sweet scent of the sandalwood takes his breath

she rehearses for her sacrificial lent
she is a child before his carnal christening
wipes the dampness from the window glass
thin fingers shadow a swollen nipple
with milk to arrest his swelling temper

his blue tongued panting an early warning

his canine teething would take more than milk
she's no longer a maid on the heath
those girlish past days were long bequeathed

he abides by no laws and suffers no guilt

his warm breath rises from his frothy mouth

she covers wary for the safety of her children

but returns again to the window for one last query

the lone wolf is approaching with his bohemian charm
a few steps more he will take the door
she moves the bolt to unlatch
moves one step back
he moves toward her in a frosted coat
he takes to the fire and her open heart
they'll sleep contented there's still time

to be overtaken by the dangerous and sublime