by MARC BEAUDIN
A night of rain gives way
to a morning of snow
falling reluctantly from hawk-filled skieswith a bad back I hobble,
slower than my grandfather ever did,
out to the barn to feed the horses
and break the pane of ice
that seals their water trough
I don’t pause to see my reflection
I don’t ponder the possible symbolism
I don’t touch or smell or taste the metaphor
offered by windows of ice
revealing the depths of lifeI simply stab with my fingertips,
shake off the water and replace my glove
realizing that the last twenty years or so are a blur,
though every memory before that
is as clear as the icicle hanging
from a strand of the mane on the white mare(the years now
pass faster and faster)a single magpie
blossoms in an apple tree
a new year begins
“though every memory before that
is as clear as the icicle hanging
from a strand of the mane on the white mare”
No icicles in Thailand. And I have no mare, but memories clear… of years ago… I have those, too.
If you go to the Poets’ Basement at counterpunch.org to read the poems there, two poems before, you will find Bow down to gold, by a ‘frustrated American’ named Matthew Clifford. I cannot help but think that he’s been to Thailand.
Thanks for the tip. I think you’re right.