Monday, March 23, 2009

Night Medicine

This could be the night 
before warmth 
oh, cold still
feels like death 

cold has hold of you;
the night of bitter medicine
cold sheets
and raw hands. All day. . .

You toiled in the pelting rain;
You opened your mouth to sing:
All the day
words fell out
no music came
your back ached 
into the shovel and 
the stone.

Home to an empty hearth 
and winter
having stayed too late
gloats over your cold supper

Only crows flew this day
and one owl guards your night,
her silent wings folded over her heart.
She will not fly, nor you.

You will not die 
not yet
though your bones want 
to escape your skin
and sleep calls like the night's drug.

This might be the night before 
the ice crack and
green break through.
This is the night to toss and moan.

Tomorrow might be cold, 
but know this:
everything you feel
is you, alive.


  1. Beautiful, Claire. Just beautiful.

    Kathy E.

  2. Beautifully written poem, Claire. Very compelling and wonderful. I look forward to your next contribution.
    Cam French


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