Are you the white bear

                                    of love, or of winter?

                                    Of December’s embers,

                                    of March’s march sunward,


                                    Of April leaves like baby’s fists?

                                    Or this newly minted June,

                                    her fireflies that raptly kiss

                                    alight our Mason drinking jars?


                                    A year since you’ve been gone.  Gone

                                    to lonesome rivers under creaking stars.


                                    A year.  Lonesome rivers.

                                    Where your raptor shadow flies,

                                    skimming over polished stones

                                    the exact colors of your eyes—


                                    Are you?  Fresh molted June?

                                    Spooning greensweet July

                                    shouting her rowdy blooms,

                                    her spasms of pink marshmallow pain?


                                    A year.  Summer simmers.  Pink

                                    marshmallow pain—take me with you!

                                    Take me with you when you turn

                                    into August rain.




















What are you looking for?