I imagine you


in a bleak season of oceans.

You are washing

your hair

in the grey wind,

open arms

embracing the seagull winters.

Your eyes

are black warnings

on the grave horizon,

beyond which lie

poorly forgotten places

under snow,

people in streets,

lights left kindled.

I can see you

in raincoat and seashell,

hunting the visible light

for an invisible shelter,

a place that

will love you

better than I.





What we called brittle

was just the icy movement

of a winter stream.

And they were only roots

that we described

as branches in the earth.

Birds were ambassadors,

attending conferences

if you please,

for all we knew

of life had been distilled

to an accomplished artifice,

like the ribbon of highway

to the west

and the sunlight diamonds

when we reached the sea.

Suffering was of course

a flower,

and death merely

a color

that was simply a name

and not a color at all.

There were no words

for love or for spirit,

and as for life,


we called it a mountain,

and at others

a path upon it.


* * *


Dean Baltesson lives in Victoria, British Columbia. He has published a number of poems in literary venues such as Blue Buffalo, The Haiku Journal, IthacaLit and most recently, Island Writer.

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