Even from the cabin window I sensed the wind’s
Contagion begin to infect the rags of leaves
Then the alders gilded to it, obeisant, the way
Angels are said to bow, covering their faces with
Their wings, not solemn, as we suppose, but
Possessed of a sudden, surreptitious hilarity.
When the little satin wind arrived,
I felt it slide through the cracked-open door
(A wisp of prescience? A change in the weather?).
and after the small push of breath – You
entering with your air of radiant surprise,
I the astonished one.
These still December mornings
I fancy I live in a clear envelope of angels
Like a cellophane womb. Or a soap bubble,
the colors drifting, curling. Outside
everything’s tinted rose, grape turquoise
silver – the stones by the path, the skin of the sun
on the pond ice, at night the aureola of
a pregnant moon, like me, iridescent
almost full-term with light.
Graphite on Paper
contributed by Shari-Anne