Close to Home

Moroccan oranges and a bottle of wine in hand, I set out
to a dinner party so close to home that it was impossible
to arrive flushed or even fashionably late.
. . . . .

Over the Bridge

Rush hour walled in the concrete Metropolitan.
Flat bread and fruit bowl in the back seat.
We inched our way toward dinner.
The city-glow pushed us across the river.
Night fell over the bridge.
. . . . .

Beet Salad

Somehow I managed to Potluck myself into a corner.
It took longer than I thought to shop, roast, peel and slice.
I went to dinner bearing a beet salad bordering on the alchemical.
A cut-glass bowl clutched in the red-stained fingers of a murderer.
. . . . .

Reading Ovid

In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, so many turn to stone,
whether from sadness, fear or retribution.

A solid state was the fate of ruined Niobe:
“Her neck unbending, arms, feet motionless,
Even her entrails had been turned to stone.”

Against Perseus, Eryx disbelieved his men:
“'It is your fear and not the Gorgon’s head
That makes you stand as if you were asleep;
Wake up with me and cut this monster down,
This boy who talks of magic spells and weapons.'
He charged, but as he lunged, floor gripped his feet;
He turned to granite in full battle-dress.”

And Phineus, “whose neck at once grew rigid,
And tears of onyx hung upon his cheeks.”

All this is because, I suppose, in the beginning:

“(Some find this fable more than fabulous,
But we must keep faith with our ancient legends)
Pebbles grew into rocks, rocks into statues
That looked like men; the darker parts still wet
With earth were flesh, dry elements were bones,
And veins began to stir with human blood –
Such were the inclinations of heaven’s will.
The stones that Deucalion dropped were men,
And those that fell from his wife’s hands were women.
Beyond, behind the years of loss and hardship
We trace a stony heritage of being.”

Suffice it to say,
I am careful not to fall asleep while reading Ovid.
. . . . .

Bright Drifts Grey

A blue sky day melts bright drifts grey.
Black-light-blue by four in the afternoon.
Shovelling, snow jaundiced by streetlamps.
Sidewalks grow black ice, greased by night.
. . . . .

In The Snow Park

The dog runs wild in the snow park.
Good things he's black, or we'd lose him.
His tongue is a long story.
His wet footprints follow us inside.
. . . . .

thick as thieves

Snow is falling, thick as thieves.
It fills the trees, and softens the cars.
Soon the sidewalks will be single file, except to pass.
Tomorrow: A morning of miraculous lawns.
. . . . .