By Carolyn Muchhala<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Seven decades ago, you first inhaled
and squalled. Daily your mother bundled you
into the buggy on the snow-swept porch\u2014
mandatory January sunshine.
Everybody knows two-faced Janus, looking\t\t\t
forward, looking back. Never learns
a thing from that watery light.
This is the map you were given:
Dead-end road
up North\u2014trees,
trees. Too far in
to back out. Too narrow.
Can\u2019t turn around.
Where did the path go?
It ended in snow. Never mind, you told yourself.
Look straight on, even if your sight\u2019s obscured.
What illuminates, you saw,
are shadows spread in all directions.
<\/pre>\n\n\n\n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\nWinter Medley<\/h1>\n\n\n\n
\n
- By Carolyn Muchhala<\/em><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n\n\n\n
Incandescent trees
have turned to blackened claws
They rise to grip December skies.
Black-capped chickadees
shelter in conifers, feast on frosted
pine cone seeds, indulge in
an orgy of flutters & chirps.
Now white-footed mice nest in hollows.
Now a barred owl flaps westward.
Now crow voices rasp against
the twilight glass.
<\/pre>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\nDecember \/ Long Nights Moon<\/h1>\n\n\n\n
By Carolyn Muchhala<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
Night stretches
from one end
to the other.
It blankets
Lake Superior.
The moon twists and shimmers in the water,
a silky glow. Still, it\u2019s not enough.
They grow
desperate
for light.
They pack
a few clothes.
They drive and drive and drive
into the arc of the sun.
<\/pre>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\nin my dream, her journey<\/h1>\n\n\n\n
By Carolyn Muchhala<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
\tthree crows rise
\tthrough layers of creosote sky
\twinter drifts over shuttered leaves
\tcrusts the path my mother walks
\tdressed in a nightgown thin
\tas a river's skin of ice and white
\t
\tin a darkened room
\ther face is a candle
\tflaring in the cold
\tas she turns in the circle
\tof my father's arms
\tthe circle of his arms
\ta shadow creases
\tthe burying snow
\tand i alone can hear
\tthe crows their wings
\tlike heartbeats
\tin the falling light
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