Dust Scattered pillows, must be morning. The sky doesn’t tell, it’s always fixed, Winter Solstice Pam Butcher one way or the other. Now it’s the sun. Karla Linn Merrifield Motes in the bands of light, congregants of a higher purpose on a heaven’s road— if you could fill the place with that radiance For one moment you would see they’re everywhere, lost, the universe collapses aimless multitudes floating through space, occasionally crashing into one another. into a frame of black You said: on white, a minyan never forget that the sun is a star and your day might be just a speck of ravens against Yukon in someone else’s night mountain icefields bleached and for a second, I couldn’t breathe. This is our inheritance, a paler shade of pale. anciently cultivated from nothing, The birds are near; searching for patterns in the movements of dust and meaning through windows that, the high peaks far. for these purposes, seem bulletproof I touch them both. What a delicious longing to succumb to, even if just for a moment, Feather & stone letting our collective gaze sealed glacier deep fall on some point in the distance become my body: and calling this distance virtue. corvid warm, If April is cruel, it is because of the scent
of possibility, yes, the opening and spilling of what we bury for a time under wool and wounding cold, and the way it comes back, rippling just out of reach, surface to the drowning victim, reach anyway because the breeze tickles the neurons inside your nostrils, passing molecular messages of spring. That smell, the smell between cold and warm, winter and summer, blue and yellow, moon and sun, bitterness and nostalgia— cruel is a fine word for such a no man’s land.
granite solid. I fly, I stand still, even in near-Solstice sun above the 60th parallel. I travel great distances, but I remain with you in the old photograph taken by my inner eye. As a flash I am there, I am here. Follow me.
A Literary Journal for the North Pacific Rim