Wednesday, July 19, 2006


Photo by S. Auberle

His hands seemed made of clay...
Again the woman wakes with these words in
her head. They had first come yesterday afternoon
when she'd fallen asleep to escape the heat. Her
grandfather's hands, she thinks, for his face seems
to float through her mind. Then more lines come to her:

like the earth he'd loved so much
and to which he'd soon return.
She didn't know how to let him go.

Surely the beginning of a poem the woman thinks, as
a soft night wind blows across her body. She
reaches for pen and paper beside the bed.

Tonight, 2:30 a.m., words scribbled in the sultry July
night. Heat pushing in on her. She waits for dawn,
another scorching day in the heat wave. Her words
seem excited to be freed in this middle of the night
writing. There is no moon to light the page, only
a hot wind. She thinks of winds--the mistral, the
Santa Ana, the Chinook.

In the morning it will be difficult to deciper the writing,
nearly illegible, like left-handed writing from this
night side of her brain, but she'll choose a few words,
and be amazed at the dark weight of them.

She remembers the warm touch of the lake she'd swam
in last night before bed. How it rocked her like a
tender lover...


- mimi


Blogger Ralph Murre said...


6:15 AM  
Blogger Bruce Hodder said...

I agree.

3:44 AM  
Blogger Askinstoo said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

1:52 PM  

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