Winter Solstice West of Potlatch

Trees grow corral leaves

white as breath hanging on air.

Pines are themselves cones

of aged slumber.

. . . walks to find pine needles

for the beasties, a little green

in a sleeping world.

. . . squeaky boots and hiss of llama toes

before they break through the crust.

. . . frost on their wool before sun

if it ever comes through fog.

From the town, noon whistle.

Christmas is hurry

in the timeless place,

and fire whistle blows:

indoor tree fires.

Ice is a claw without time;

spring is a whore

bears should slumber to enjoy.

And from the town noon

whistle blows around Christmas.

 

first published in Poems From the Last Frontier, National Arts Soc., 1989.

 

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About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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