The Winter Wing


A canoe called Promise slips the banks of frost,
a beautiful women steps down
from a wrought ironed balcony.

She has walked away from the fireplace,
said goodbye to her mother.

Her children are fine now,
by themselves,
in the world of chances.

Touching her broken wing
reminds her of pain
she cannot sleep with.

She smiles tenderly
as she talks of dying today.

Impressions of water lilies,
rowers in a clinker boat,
a fragrance lost in January,
a dab of spring waiting,
turquoise climbs into sky,
held up by shimmering stoneworks,
whispering the birch groved hills,
minute songs of shimmering,
calling her tired heart,
sacred hands of purpose
that occasionally lift the painting brush,
reaches of light and shadow,
tinted by the clouds,
opening in the wild wilderness,
she has explored with the goddess.

In the afternoon, she recalls all of the mourning.

She decided to laugh and smile softly
at the odds for finding small sanctuary,
her walk has brought her home,
to an open house,
filled to the brim with generosity.

The one-handed scrubbed kitchen floor,
of duty, welcomes her.

Paintings adorn the walls,
in the old galleries and here too,
waiting terns comb the nearby beaches.

We wait our turn to find love,
but giving love
turns the tide of despair.

She finds a paddle,
in her imagination,
steps lightly into the small dream boat
and drifts about the kitchen,

between here and there,

Solstice 2015

Photo: Bára Hladíková


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