Mistee St. Clair
Gris Here nothing snarls but trees, the sky white gray and lucid, water flowing in all forms. The land absent of what is missed most, only old homes and moss hanging off the graying bark of apple trees. The hills don’t hide the world beyond, but the fog does. What here, I wonder, could fill the womb of home, familiarity, a sense of place? What could stand for mountains and trees thick with snow and ice, the world a white yawn that shimmers like teeth; homes of plywood splintered paint the color of fireweed; dogs singing in the long dark; the dawn so fresh and confident that I may look out the window and say “Today I will climb that mountain.” But what I really can say is “Today I will write a poem.” And I am here, in this place of gray and green as many shades as names for snow. Here, I say, knock mud from your boots, come have tea from rain, listen, listen, my body thunders with longing. Brush against me and I will quake.
River Ice 2
Cheeselogs “Cheese!” we say and the click, click, click of the camera freezes us in time. Forever preserved in a moment of everso-slight discomfort, arm over shoulder over arm, forced saccharine smiles, an attempt to say: we were here, together, a family. The mossy log behind us shifts slightly in the soft earth as we disperse—puzzle pieces scattered by a frustrated toddler. The scene, now a backdrop, empty, emerald green, light bounces off morning dew drops which will only dry out in the afternoon sun.
Note: Regarding the Dynamics of Rotating Spherical Objects
After two long days of mother absence After nine months of quiet speculation And a belly that grew daily so that her two toddler arms could no longer begin to span it— A red-faced miniature person
A Journal for the North Pacific Rim