Dancin' Moon Songcast Ep. 71 Near Roubaix Lake, White Christmas & Night Music | WINTER SOLSTICE POETRY SERIES EPISODE!

near roubaix lake

 

they've made a new stream

the early snow has filled

this footbridge barely supports

my weight above the runoff

 

ten inch PVC hastily

placed releases water

from the makeshift dam

of mud and sticks

to rot the roots

of newly flooded chokecherry shrubs

 

they will die now

and fall over next spring

or early summer

brown, leafless chokecherryless

 

we are running

you and I

into new course ways spilling

into low places killing what

once grew

 

and just maybe, with time

we will find what there is to water

that needs watering,

how to silt fertile

this strange Dakota

soil

 

further down, cattle graze

oblivious on rich grass stopping

only to drink

where otherwise

they would have gone thirsty

 

but winter is coming

in the gray clouds

the sun barely a warm spot,

the time when everything

shuts down

into soundless white

 

It would be simple

to wait it out

hope for a renewed warmth

to pry us into usefulness—

if only love were a thing

that flowed downhill

*******************************

 

White Christmas

 

They never have snow in Abilene

so four inches dropping wet

out of a wide, plains sky

on the twenty-sixth of December

is more miracle than ambiance

 

Grandpa, having slept the night

in jeans and boots in his chair

works up a smile as we pack ourselves

into the tiny hospital room

 

They've been expecting us

 

Grandma, one cheek drooping

stubborn as she forms her greeting

How are you-all?

her left hand lying soft, puffy

as dough in her lap

is dressed already for the holiday

in her red pant-suit

with the Indian-head nickel buttons

all buttoned and modest, pretending

the wheel-chair isn't there

Can you be-lieve this snow today?

 

Beyond the window a hastily-rolled snowman

is slowly lowering his twiggy arms, his face

sliding away under the sun

 

He will be gone in thirty minutes

 

My daughters, having given her the picture

of themselves and their sleds, are petting

Grandma's hand, singing softly

tracing lines to connect the brown spots

with the tips of their own tiny

fingers

smoothing her rounded shoulders

 

Grandpa watches, eyes keener than ours

to the subtle changes—her eyes sinking deeper

the three second waves of blankness

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