| ........ |
Quadruped Winter
Jan Ball
This winter weight of snow
and cold is forcing my head down.
I seem to forage for berries and nuts
and sniff the cold roots of trees
on all fours, like my ancient,
ancient ancestors, squatting
wherever I like, snoozing in a corner
of the splintery porch, folded around
myself, tail tucked under and never
an urgency to shade my eyes
from the bright stars.
from my window
Jan Ball
Summer is heavy on me. The lone swimmer
in Lake Michigan at gray dusk raises his arms
out of the water in a dripping arc, left, right,
left, right and I can feel the pale waterfall
in sheets from his strong shoulders;
I, inert on my sofa in air-conditioned languor,
sip chardonnay in the chilled, heady oxygen
perfumed with cloying white lilies
fresh from the market this morning,
gold-tipped stamens erect, not spewing
their yellow powder yet on the marble end table.
I glance out the window again;
the swimmer is buoyant despite
the weight of the water. He cuts the surface
of the lake like a shark, preying from Oak Street
to North Avenue Beach in Chicago, oblivious
to my longing.
img src="http://scars.tv/1p.gif" width=1 height=55 border=0>
breakfast surprise
Jan Ball
No pineapple sunchine this morning
the light snow a gray screen across
the window, so when I wandered into
the still kitchen and saw the pyramids
of that fruit quartered the way you do,
with the thin sliver of core on top
like a piece of gold jewelry, the yellow
textured slices nestled in rough outer
canoes of peel, I knew for sure there
would be Hawaiian breezes all day
and citrine chunks of life tomorrow.
|
........ |
