Lone Cabin
by Marcel Aime Duclos

Blades of Arctic winds
assault–as do your last words–
slice and rip
hillside cedar shingles,
expose dry pine ribs,
drive ice shards through the shrinkage,
deposit swirling crystals
to weep by the cooling hearth
while the orchard
dreams of springtime clover
eager to quilt the willing ground,
waits,
prays for the hum
visions pink and white blossoms
against a calm blue sky
after drinking Spring's gentle rain,
remembers
when only then
the bees came
giving hope, once again,
of golden jars
and brimming baskets–
those sweet words
thawing every frozen desire.



 

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