photo by Katy Brown, Davis
THE CARDINAL IN THE SNOWSTORM
—Wayne Robinson, Lodi
Love flew by the wayside like the Cardinal in the
snowstorm. See him in the stark branches of the
leafless pecan tree, red against angry gray as silent
as the snow fall. Wishing for spring, waiting for
sunshine and eyeing the neighbor's bird feeder. The
mean bluejay is dining there, the red one waits his
turn. Like the hungry cardinal I await my turn. My
turn at love, the warmth of the sun, like the breath
of a woman on my neck while she sleeps against me. My
turn at the feeder, to slake my starvation, the deep
hunger for a mated soul, the craving for the caramel
frosting of a lover’s-lipstick-smearing-kiss. Red,
dark red like the cardinal’s bloody feathers. To hear
his song when the grass starts to turn green and the
flowers amass in grandma’s garden again. To hear the
sweetness of a devoted woman’s voice welcome me home
and smell the fullness of a love prepared meal, a man
could die happy. But the gray sky is broken only by
the black silhouette of barren branches and the
crimson of the lone cardinal at the top.
_______________________
SLEIGH RIDE
—Patricia Wellingham-Jones, Tehama
The sleigh leans against the barn, ready
for snow always near.
Over waxed polished runners
wildflowers bloom. Pink roses in paint
cover the long narrow frame, scramble
across low back in faded disorder.
Not a single rail lines its side.
I picture the old Russian tale:
bride and groom bundled in fur,
mittened hands grip the boards. Faces
glow with thoughts of wedding night.
Behind on sleigh runners, best man
guides the horse. They race homeward
in pale light of crescent moon.
Wolves howl, blood chills,
something happens, someone spills.
By morning only red
spatters the ice.
I stand in summer sunlight
of Norway's looming green.
Icicles twitch
down my spine.
_______________________
HOMING
—Taylor Graham, Somerset
Almost weightless,
both wings
absorbed in repetitious
snow
he remembers the narrow
way he got here,
blinded by thin
north sun, so many
spired cities.
All clear, light of the mind,
and ice,
till he saw himself
transparent.
Now he sings
small as the charitable
seeds.
(first appeared in Bitterroot)
_______________________
Thanks to these three area poets for poems about the snow!
—Medusa Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry, photos and art, and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
