INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Karyn M. Bruce
A. J. Huffman
Paul B. Roth
Jennifer Burd &
Rose Mary Boehm
Michael D. Long
Ann Arbor Review <![endif]>
is an independent
International Journal & ezine<![endif]>
Copyright (c) 2013
Silver Grey Fox
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
Silver Grey Fox<![if !supportEmptyParas]>
Fred Wolven<![endif]><![if !supportEmptyParas]>
DEPTH OF WINTER
too deep for foal, fawn or calf, snow glows from its icy crust and the
blue darkness their unsteady hoofs crack open with ease, presses against
their untouched blood, bone and shadows' struggle to survive.
Coming across such shadows, scattered in and out of rock cracks, in and
out of delicate nests, you gather them into small piles until the moon,
edging closer, slowing Earth down, grows these piles even larger.
Every dispute about the sun rising or setting is useless once every shadow
on the planet gathered to this pile blocks everyone's view.
You'd like to awake
but you're not asleep. You'd like to feel the difference between these
shadows but only recognize their flame-edged silhouettes. Touched by
them or not, it's not knowing that's the difference, as if a stone falling
through water had no real depth of its own.
First one eyelid then
the other covers itself with earth until, no closer to death, both blink.
You'd like to sleep and enjoy your great great grand- father's unmotorized
dreams. You'd like to be the shadows of moths in high grasses milked
goats stir with restless legs. You'd like to be the sun and tight-rope
a frayed spider web hanging from a rusty nail's too many summers. The
sun cutting angular paths across the peaks of snowdrifts rounded by a thaw's
trickle. The sun too old to be infinite, but young enough to
self-consume. The sun and all its stairless staircases angels carry on
their vanishing backs. The sun and its sizzling oceans blistering the
skin off your downcast image. The sun and its own face known only by
its dying light's afterglow.
It comes down to sky
and what color sunset fills your eyes, what flocking green birds at last
light fill your silence with song, and what rivers in their unseen struggle
to follow where they lead themselves enter your wayward bloodstream.
Left on their own, your
bones assembled from bits of bituminous, mica and compacted river water,
straighten your spine from mud into a longing for legs. Those your old
body owned, imprisoned by pacing unlocked rooms in noisy Parisian quarters,
were squeezed tighter by a drying mud's push through large cracks from its
ever wet center.
In spite of
escaping on all fours, your memories wait abandoned on the doorstep you were
so proud of leaving behind.
The only one left, you
keep to yourself. Silence becomes less random and more sustained.
When not silent, it's you who make it so.
You make it so when you hear a
shaggy black and white goat resting against a broken fence muttering under
its breath. When you hear a rabbit chewing escarole while twitching
canticles between its whiskers and those high-lighted shadows tucked between
each tall blade of grass gone to seed. You make it so when you hear
white geese squawk while awkwardly patrolling a creek's edge well up the
slope from its cascading water. And yet, no silence is lost among
these sounds whose blend is a pure octave above those noisier voices
slipping between the pebbles your shoed feet keep scuffing and dragging
across the ground.
You listen but
inside your own heart wait for something other than its beating to occur.
Paul B. Roth, Fayetteville, New York