A Hundred Gourds 4:4 September 2015

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Lisa Timpf - Canada

The Grey Season

She can't remember when she started to despise this cold in-between season of grey sunless skies and slippery walkways; probably about the time her knee decided to give up forecasting the weather in favour of playing tricks with her balance. No wonder the groundhog popped back into his hole; she for one doesn't blame him. She'd do the same and maybe never come back out. She frets sometimes that spring will never come, not this time, where they will be stuck forever in this soul-sucking fog, this limbo between seasons. Praying for crocuses, sunshine, leaf-sprouting trees, she fights the pangs of doubt and darkness that gnaw on the vulnerable edges of her soul like inimical mice. Eliot was right but he didn't go far enough, she thinks, then can't suppress a giggle as she imagines zombies marching in lock-step through TS's wasteland, arms outstretched, past the falling bridges. Maybe things aren't so bad after all.

sunrise —
buds on the maple
clench themselves


Last night, I heard the coyotes calling to the wild that is in all of us. Their howls sobbed into the soft night, bleeding at the edges to blend with the sigh of the wind through the leaf-budding branches; with the whining of the car tires on the steep hills of the roadway a few miles west. Elusive, ethereal, they cried out once more and then went silent, slipping away like grey shapes in the night, sensed rather than seen at the corner of consciousness.

spring breeze —
the wheeling majesty
of silent stars.

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