Winter Solstice
We drive in the dark
past the open fields
into the neighborhood:
Millions of lights on the houses
in the trees—
the world a-twinkle with hope
while overhead a billion burning suns
carry on as usual.
At our friend’s house
the coals at the bottom of the fire pit
pulse with a yellow plasma
like a tiny star at our feet.
I stare into the pit, silent
as smoke and the party swirl around me.
People notice, ask me to blink.
There’s wish paper inside, someone announces
Write down your wish for the coming year
or something you want to let go of.
She drops a small square into the flames.
Later I slip through the friendly clumps
of nice people in the kitchen
grab two papers and jot down:
The courage to make the right choice.
The courage to be happy.
I roll them into little balls
toss them in, one at a time.
Maybe in a year I’ll know
which is the wish
which the letting go.
Wind-Whipped
After a night of broken sleep, I survey the damage
still being wrought as the wind scours the Front Range
and scrambles angrily towards the east.
How rudely it jostled me, tearing at my hair
each time I waited (thrice!)
for the dog to sniff out a spot to pee.
In a dark punched full of lamppost holes
it mauled my pajama legs
angry at me for God knows what.
Now, in the pale light, the shredded walls
of the maintenance crew’s work shed
flail their fingers of siding.
Broken branches dither across the lawns
and flowerpots cartwheel across the parking lot.
The electric company shut off the power in the mountains
a precaution I appreciate, though it’s not helping me
sell my house up there this weekend.
Isn’t everything like that these days?
Start. Stop. Then get fully carried away.
To My Beautiful Dead
I am thinking of the times your laughter burbled out of you
like a string of pearls slipping from the strand
spilling all that light
across the hardwood floor of my heart.
I remember impassioned conversations in the car
your left hand gripping the wheel
right arm gesticulating as we raced along the Rhine
in search of the Lorelei.
Why are you so kind to me? I finally had to ask
at a restaurant in Koblenz
leaning over the white linens
the cold slabs of unsalted butter.
Because, you said, picking up a roll, you’re not cool.
I assured you that, where I come from, that is not a compliment.
That’s not what I mean, you said.
You’re seismographic. Everything you feel
immediately registers on your face.
No one else does that.
One night in Sarzana
you delivered a gentle homily
on the covered balcony
above the garden.
Plump peach-colored rain drops
backlit by the lights of the train station
fell like scattered rose petals
behind you.
Shaking your head
your sighs of consternation
were not for me
but for this world of riptides and uncertainty.
I reached for your hand across the waves
grateful for salvation.
Now all my freeze frames of you
can be strung together
the ribbon of our story
edited by memory and me–
a crack team of punctuation artists.
In our dark little studio
we cut the long silences and banalities
paring down our many yesterdays into one sure tale
that flows like a river
over time, over miles
the way you poured yourself over me
wearing down my jagged granite
winding into the silt of my heart
leaving your little flakes of gold.
Sandra S. McRae’s books include all the way to just about there (FutureCycle Press), The Magic Rectangle (Folded Word), and the Weber’s Big Book of Grilling (Chronicle). Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, and she has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Sandra and is an editor at Bristlecone, a poetry journal of the Mountain West. A tenured professor at Red Rocks Community College, she also teaches creative writing at the University of Denver and at workshops along the Front Range of Colorado. Visit Sandra at www.WordsRunTogether.com.
Featured Image: Argentine Pass. Front Range of Rocky Mountains by Department of the Interior. This work is in the public domain in the United States.
