If I Were Young Again

Piecemeal summer dies; the spread of long winter blanket again. For ten years I have lived in exile, locked in this rickety cabin, shoulders jostled up against open Alberta sky. If I were young again I’d sing of the coolness of high mountain snow flowers, the sprinkle of night glow-blue meadows; I would dream and stretch slim fingers into the distant nowhere, yawn slowly over the endless prairie miles. Prairie grassland is where in summer silence grows; in the evening eagles spread wings dripping like wild honey. If I were young again I’d eat pine cones, food of birds, share meals with wild wolves, I’d have as much dessert as wanted, reach out into blue sky, lick the clouds off my fingers. But I’m not young anymore, my thoughts tormented, are raw, overworked, sharpened with misery from torture of war and childhood. For ten years now I have lived locked in this unstable cabin, inside the rush of summer winds, outside air beaten dim with snow. -1985-