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A winter’s dream

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He lived the worsted winter months, content
and warm, beside his glowing coals.  His walls
protected him from prairie winds that would,
if wild, leave waning hearts in withered hides
of all who stood exposed.  But here, beneath
the wind, away from stinging snows, in close
to his own fire, he sang a song of thanks.
He pressed his hands against the earth to feel
its quiet force, to touch the womb of his
own strength, to suck the scent of this, his home.

A dawn arrived so crisp and clear the light
beyond his walls crept in and kissed his eyes
awake.  The sun caressed his face and drew
him out, it seemed, with whispers soft and new.
The light was unlike any he had seen:
so brilliant, pure and sure it hurt his eyes;
so beautiful and strong he could not look
away.  He stretched his arms toward the sun
as if he meant to hold it close, embrace
the heat and press the light against his breast.

“I waited long for you.  I saw you in
my dreams.  I knew I’d love you when you came.”
He closed his eyes.  “And now that you are here,
I know you will not stay with me.  Your walk
along my path is short; your journey’s pace
is swift.  I know that you have danced across
the mountain tops, that you have run untamed
with horses on the distant plains, that you
have heard the secret songs of streams unknown.
I know you long for them again, so go.”

He bowed his head and smiled. “In dreams, I’ve held
you near a hundred times and not been burned.
Before you came, I touched your flame, embraced
your fire and felt the life that flows from you.”
He raised his face toward the sky again.
“I know it cannot be.  Your touch would mean
the end of me.”  He shook his head.  “I have
no want for life to live a dream or dreams
to come to life: to see your light today
is sweeter even than the dream.  Enough.”

He lived the worsted winter months, content
and warm, beside his glowing coals.  His walls
protected him from prairie winds that would,
if wild, leave waning hearts in withered hides
of all who stood exposed.  But here, beneath
the wind, away from stinging snows, in close
to his own fire, his heart was full of thanks.
His fingers wrapped around his flute and lips
blew happy songs of love: for light, for heat,
for hints of spring that dance within a dream.

Season’s end

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He pitched a lure across the stern and watched

it land beneath the pines that bent along

the shore, then glanced toward the man at the bow.

“Are you OK?”

………

………… “I’m rid of those tubes,

ain’t I?  Look boy, if you are planning to play

doctor all day, I’ll lend you my pocket knife–

who knows?–you might find something the quacks left behind.”

……..

“I know it was rough, but they’re just trying to help.”

He reeled the lure, with a tug on a weedy snag.

……

“Ya, so they kept telling me.  The look of the bear’s

a little different once you’re inside the den.”

The old one tested his line for strength, attached

his bait and looked out over the lake.  “Oh, no–”

…….

“What’s the matter?”

…….

………………….. “I don’t have a license to fish

in Canada; they’ll come take our gear for sure.”

……..

“Relax; this isn’t Canada.  Hey, you sure

you’re OK?”

…….

…………. “Of course I’m OK.  I may be old

and worn out, but I’m twice the fisherman

you’ll ever be.  Now quit treating me like a girl

and stay out of my way.”  He made his cast,

but sounds of passing geese in southward skeins

drew longing lines around his fading eyes.

He closed his coat against the autumn chill.

…….

The trees along the banks were once a stand

of heroes–having strength and will enough

to mock the fates that put them there–but now

they sunk as withered husks, as easy prey

for winter’s first harsh wind.  The young man turned

and trembled.  “Dad, are you afraid to die?”

…….

“For the love of– What the hell kind of question is that?

I swear I’ll never figure out why you

have to talk about everything all the time.”

…….

“I thought you’d want to talk.  I thought it would help.

Forget it.”

……..

…………..“Afraid I’ll leave you out of my will?”

…….

“Damn it all, Dad.  You know better than that.”

He held his rod tip high, looking for a place

to make another cast.  “I’ll tell you why.

I talk because I’m scared to death.”

…….

………………………………….“Of what?”

………

“Of what?  Of what?  Of all of it.  Of you.

Of losing myself after you–”

……

………………………..”“That’s enough.”

………

“Hold on!”–he jerked the line to set the hook,

and pulled it tight to hold the fish he thought

he had caught.  “It’s a big one.  Quick, get the net.”

……

“Keep your rod up, line tight.”

……..

…………………………“I am.  I am.

Must be twenty pounds or more.  Listen to the drag

screamin’.  You set with that net?  She’s comin’ up.”

……..

“All set.”  The old one leaned over the edge

and looked into the water.  “What the hell

is that?  Afraid, that ain’t a fish there, boy.”

…….

He pulled a dead, decaying goose in close

and worked to free the snag.  “Oh, Dad– Poor thing.

The big old bird just couldn’t make it through

another year.  He really fouled my line.”

……

“Hurry and cut it loose, damn it.  Let it go.”

The old one laid down his rod and fixed his eyes

on the distant shore.

…………The young one cut the line.

……..

“I’ll miss you, Dad.”

…….

……………“Huh?  What?  What did you say?”

…….

“Nothing.”

…………The father looked at his son and a nod

of knowing eased them both.  “Let’s go home, son.”