Saturday, January 11, 2014

For Jeannette

Pushing the limits of fragile as strength,
you endure, an impoverished queen in exile.
Waiting for your grandson to finish playing,
you quietly hold court in the park.

A cormorant spreads its wings to warm itself
in your sun-filled voice over the phone.
It lulls me back into a stroll through a rose-garden
near midnight, and your blessing on my road.

You ask me, how are things? I pause, over the
translation from sycamore into spruce.

During winter, a tide in Cook Inlet is bizarre.
The once-grey ocean becomes an ice-factory,
conveys it in crackling sheets side-ways,
grinding it inexorably into shards by the shore.

The biting wind only allows a few moments to stare
at the way the ice plays tricks with light,
giant pastel lanterns flick shadow-puppets
across Sleeping Lady's grandest pinkish-orange peignoir.

While your voice, dear friend, is a flock of wax-wings
Swooping round me, a figure-eight, a sudden gathering-in.


Sigerson said...

wonderful piece!

Iulia Flame said...

Thanks Doc! xx

julianza said...

I love this, Jillian. I always love a strong ending. Wish I had time to comment in more detail; wish I could see it WHILE commenting.

Iulia Flame said...

I am so glad you enjoyed it, Julianza. Much affection in your direction.

Iulia Flame said...
This comment has been removed by the author.

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