Snow

like a cold blanket,
an arctic shroud, white,
like Christ’s hanging from the Easter cross;
redemptive and pristine,
an almost welcome cover-up;
clay for mitten sculptures,
like a new infant’s soul,
a momentary treat,
warm tongues, chattering teeth.

Braiding

I answered you when you called
and sat before you Buddha-like,
leaning back against your legs,
facing away, looking out on the lagoon.
Your fingers worked quickly,
strand after strand,
squeezing little bits of foil,
threading beads two at a time.

You spoke in island melody,
expressing breeze and heat.
I thought you might tell me a story
of Africa, or the Arawak.
Lifting my face to the Caribbean sun
I dreamed this was my island
and not yours.

copyright 1997