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Waking Winter to Sleep How hard the handsome turns too late Where no earth seasons permeate; Distance is no fast barrier. One season is always the worse. Tumbling, turning, no anchor, boat Without ocean and more remote. Fear is real, pebbles out here are Cruel weapons; white balloons will burst. Swift is the angel’s tear. No limbs Enfold. He sucks and leaves a film Of cold red to hide his horror’s birth. Guide stiff crib back to mother’s keep. Later, back on land, white Service Trees in bloom, in spite of ice, Walking away from Acre’s earth, I pause, waking winter to sleep. |
Additional Notes:
The first three stanzas take place in outer space, a death during a routine space walk. The Service Tree is the first tree to bloom in late winter in the Appalachian Mountains. In the old days, when people died during the winter, when the ground was frozen, they would be kept until the Service Tree bloomed. When that occurred, they knew the ground was no longer frozen and a grave could be dug and the funeral service could be held. This poem came to me in a dream. I don't know what to make this poem that came to me in a recent dream.
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