4 a.m., May 3…….
Looking up from reading Wolf Willow
…the clock quietly ticking…
suddenly I’m not alone in the cool
lamplit room:
Stegner is sitting there in the squeaking rocker,
rocking slowly, by the cold wood stove.
He says nothing, just a wry smile,
a knowing look, deeper
than his starry Manitoba sky.
Facing each other in old worn chairs,
Beston and Borland muse about New England,
blue blizzards and lilacs, blowing
endless seasons across the ancient glacial hills;
how gold sunlight shimmers the steep sand,
the white sea birds, cold blue waters
sparkling, forever breaking, shaping
the outermost Cape.
At the black window, holding a red and silver
balalaika, Pasternak stands vigilant
in an embroidered peasant shirt, looking out
into tall bare birches, cold spring stars.
He turns to me with that perennial question
on his raw-boned Russian face, revealing
the deep pathos of shattered ideals,
of war, and loss.
Suddenly Akhmatova blows in from the night,
chilled, scented with passion and dried perfume,
broken loves like tender blossoms,
drops of blood on late spring snow ….
And over in the shadows sits
dark-eyed Jane Kenyon: her fingers resting
from gardening, from making luminescent words.
She puts down her half-empty glass of red wine
and crumbles old newspapers with split kindling.
Her voice is rich with flowers, and the sorrow
of killing frost, saying to the rest of us
“someone needs to build a fire”.
*
*
–Quilla
Night Wind…….
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The last evening in October:
Beside the lamp, the window is open.
The year’s last moths
bump against the black screen.
Cool air fills the room.
Long gusts of night wind rise and fall
in the dark pines, moaning ghosts
of autumns long past,
like the shores of old Octobers
sighing deep sea-winds.
*
*
–Quilla
Friday, January 11.13
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Departure
The night of winter rain is gone.
Sun breaks through departing clouds—
ragged silver edges of the storm.
A host of raindrop diamonds glistens
every shining twig, each black brier thorn.
The slightest gust now shakes them down.
My heart is quiet: listening like a flute
to winter’s harsh and delicate muse: throngs
of angry crows, one White-throat Sparrow sings.
Swaths of sudden sunlight wash
the gleaming pages of the Book.
Like carved stones, only the holy words remain.
Rain shadows, heart shadows slip away
like ghosts. A low fire flutters in the stove.
Wisps of smoke ride the morning wind.
*
“Heaven and earth will pass away.
My words shall never pass away”.
–Jesus (Matthew 24:35)
“My soul, wait in silence for God only,
for my hope is from Him.
He only is my rock, and my salvation,
my stronghold, I shall not be shaken”
–Psalm 62: 5-6
*
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–Quilla
Ruach 333, by Quilla 