At the Window
AT THE WINDOW
She had cut her hair
and wondered if he liked it
“Not a problem” he said
acutely aware of her perpetual
pattern of cyclical change
She was a Cynthian spirit,
a sensual soul, a life giving poem
healing all whom she knew like
an exquisite mixture of sunlight
and rain daily applying their
restorative nutrients to the
damaged terrain of a badly burned
forest, guarded at night by the
changing phases, the ivory white
light of the goddess of the moon
But…..
It was cold outside and the big
Macks and Kenworths with their
smooth-shifting gears pushed up
Route 12 into lake-effect country,
kicking up snow like silvery wolves,
bright lights like big teeth, running
for Syracuse, Watertown, Montreal
and beyond
“I like it” he said, meaning the
trucks on parade, “I know” she
replied, including her hair with
the north country commerce that
connected his dreams to
everywhere else
Copyright © Emanuel Carter | Year Posted 2021
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