I look into these woods
I look into these woods
where I sometimes see my soul
in a big woolen coat trudging back
into the place where the deer lick
the long yielding limbs.
I rise up out of my chair and call.
Here, you belong here.
It glances back once or twice,
sad, grey eyes like shadows,
looking coldly on what is left.
The nomad in the foliage brown greatcoat
shuns me and my formalities.
It will decide alone, without me,
when to mend what broke between us,
how quickly to come back home.
Kathryn M. Arbour
Summer
Loose summer hangs on bones,
Bright, easy, endless.
That hilarious, hot heaven
Where hearts open, break apart,
Mend again and
It’s still light outside.
Summer is the cache of sand in a pocket,
And grass and handfuls of fruit.
Summer.
Summer sheets flung across a body.
A bare breeze on a face on a porch.
A tall drink.
A few drops of rain.
Music from speakers in the window.
Summer.
To want and indulge,
With only the slightest worry
Of its passing. An ache that lingers,
One you get used to.
Kathryn M. Arbour
In my next life
I dream of pond grass
touching my feet.
I drink and eat
only green.
As a swan, I enjoy
the silence inside the
long shadows of cattails.
Then, thrill
at the first warmth of May,
drawing me again to the center
of that wide water.
I am in the sun and rain
without worry, and the time
of day is all I notice.
To come again as a swan
means seeing out of one eye
at a time, and finally knowing
that there is nothing better
beyond the banks.
Kathryn M. Arbour
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