Playfully, I steal the Argentinian
away from reedy palm trees and waifish
sandbars, then gift him to the Laurentians.
Here, winter sasses each pine, a soft lisp
that sloughs quilted hills as we glide old trails.
He sees in Precambrian rocks trompe-l'oeils,
then tips his hat at mordant cardinals.
We freeze as a stag appears, the viceroy
of these woods. He is lost gentry who stows
sage verse, outlining seasons without words.
I coax my friend to build a woman of snow.
Wise, his craft, for he leaves her ungirded.
and from evergreen, he weaves her a bonnet.
I laugh, for from his grin smiles, too, my sonnet.
About this poem
My term of affection for Ruben has been for some time: hat man.
An Argentinian who now lives in a southern state, he recently commented to me he could not believe how cold it was where I lived.
I used to live in Quebec, and there is nothing quite as beautiful as the Laurentians in winter... well, lol, perhaps the Laurentians in the fall, all those trees, all those colours.
So I decided to ?take? Ruben there.
The Laurentians are... hmmm...like Quebec?s Appalachian mountains, a wild, rolling landscape, a natural beauty which can leave you breathless.
I was intentionally ambiguous in lines 9 and 10, as I am speaking of both the stag and Ruben. I can hear him laughing so hard right now that he fell off his chair. Me! Stag! WAAA HAA HAAA WAAA HAAA but, he might say, Yup. You got that right.
The rock cliffs of the Laurentians are hard to describe, made with this ancient rock that would surely inspire a thousand haiku. I think that Ruben would love them.
I hope you like it.
If anything puzzles you, ask away!
Hugs to my chum, Ruben, who playfully wanted a sonnet ... so I gave him one.