Wednesday, February 4, 2015

She Loved The Night And She Might Love It Still

The stain of evening spreads in shivered light
Outwards from the waning gibbous moon
To Jupiter and Regulus beyond.
Soon the night is tremulous with ice.

She loved the night, and she might love it still,
But she is far from Gatineau: the pines,
The cedar marshes cupped by aspen groves,
The granite fortress hills of ancient birth,
Are far away from her. And where am I?
Not here. Not shaking in my winter coat,
Not kicking at the powder. No.

I run
And I could howl, if howling meant "Alive,
But not right now." The stubbled, crusted fields,
Lined with limits by the leaning fences
But otherwise an infinite expanse
For any howling course below the moon,
Have called me in their silence. Far away.
The broken barns, forgotten toys in hills
Where every human structure falls apart
At the bursting of the frost, if given time,
Echo mindless howling. Far away.
The roads, now routes for culminating weeds,
For dead grey stalks of alien mullein,
For seedpods of milkweed, for Queen Anne's lace
Left over like medieval torture tools,
Are winding sheets for every pointless tread
That carries me to no place. Far away.

And where am I? Not here. Not now. Not I.
She loved the night, and she might love it still;
I wish the night could love her in return.

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