Even a winter-person has dreams of Madagascar. |
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WinteringI’d November in Madagascar if I could,hide out the winter in India’s blazing sun, sombrero on the sunny side of Columbian walls, bare-toe my way along a Cancun beach Anywhere but here, this painted lady’s arms in winter can’t begin to hold me down Ancient distant lands of promise, promising beginnings that never ended, mysteries The touch of outstretched longings left behind for a time in tangled sweat-soaked sheets I’d remap this portion of the world in finger-sifted sand, to suit myself and no one else, blown over I’ve lived the chilled and wintered life, fingers stiff Too bone-cold to see past a smoky sun, held low against a horizon that drives me to steaming soup All the edges hazy, it’s time now for clarity and warmth A dawn that jumps, not drags me from my bed My batteries may be solar, time to be recharged An easing back of the throttle, coasting, drenched in deep blue waters turning green with envy at un-clustered, undressed lying about all afternoon to watch a spider on a wall Ceiling fans and windows open to the breeze of all I ever thought or hoped, the speck of someone seen shimmering on the horizon, walks my way, arms stretched and golden and I can wait it out, lying there in the afternoons of endless time |
This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection THE SMELL OF TWEED AND TOBACCO available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats. |