Andrea Moorhead
Perhaps an old photo
Thistle fleece caught in her hair, she’s reading the night paper, creases from rain and wind, flower petals staining the edges, it’s cold out this evening, lights dim along the street, people quickly, cars, bicycles, the occasional passing bird. Night in the city, glowing pavement, it’s raining again, the wind, the light, flower petals falling to the ground.
Perceptions
Holes in the light when someone moves too quickly, a shadow, a murmur, a rippling under the skin, sensation of voices too close, against and besides, continuing when the light splashes over the body, blue waters from a child’s book, rainbow pebbles and silver seeds, the light is never steady, moving against and beyond, holes appearing and disappearing whenever someone approaches or when the night falls too quickly.
A Child’s Daydream
Folded blankets, a basket of tender leaves. It couldn’t be a still-life, there’s something moving in the basket, in between the blanket’s folds. Woven rushes, fibers from brown sheep. Sun on the blanket. The basket is swaying again. Carrying a miniature fawn, wrapped in new leaves. Layers of soft wool, spun from the silken threads of dream. He slept all morning, gently rocking the basket, moving the dream out into the sun.
Requiem
Bones by the side of the road. Oscillating, porous. A thin coating of dusty snow. Picking up stones. Carrying the wind along. It’s almost midnight, no one else out here. The bones have their own song. They don’t belong to anyone. It’s snowing somewhere far away, in a curled leaf, a torn field.
A Children’s Story
Follow the night closely, it often wraps itself in the skirts of a wild eagle, in the teeth of a boar, in the cascades behind the fence, streams flooded and the road impassible. A children’s story illustrated by an unknown artist. Blue and purple trees, soft grey stones, and the wild flickering of the midnight sun. It’s snowing in the story, and the eagles are high in the trees. Shadows along the path, sudden moons rolling along, and the children accept the irregularities of narration, adding their own flavor to the air, their own commentaries when the words seem a bit too pale, and the artist clings to the blue and purple trees, children flashing their teeth with the boar, and the flowers that sprout from the moon seeds are silver and yellow. It’s still snowing when July begins. Polar bears and seals,
Arctic owls and some bird that even the children can’t identify. It comes with the wind, whistling and murmuring, singing and soaring so high above us all that the sky turns vermillion when we try to look. The last page has no drawings, the ink is bleached, almost invisible from many hands touching and turning, kissing, and creasing the corners, leaving the cover with its bold midnight sun.
Sundays by the River
Sitting by the river, watching the boats, the fishermen on the wall, passing children, ducks. The day quiet, chilly. I had put on my thick red sweater, the one I had worn all summer in the woods. A clearing out along the horizon. There’s no mist on the river. It’s not mysterious. It’s mesmerizing, though, watching the water, the boats, the fishermen, the passing clouds. It’s cold with the wind coming in from the lake. It picks up at the mouth of the river. We’re sitting here the way we always sit here on Sunday afternoons, after church, after the cemetery, after lunch, if I’m lucky, baloney sandwiches, an apple, part of a peanut-crusted donut left over from the ride home, a tall glass of cold milk. It seems a miracle to be here on the stone wall at river’s edge, warm in my thick red sweater, watching the fish glint, squinting out into the water, my eyes following the curve of the light, everything else so far away. You never say very much on Sunday afternoons. That’s what’s so nice. Sitting here by the river, gazing across to Canada, following the ripples of light on the cold, dense water.
Andrea Moorhead, born in Buffalo, New York, is the publisher of the prestigious international magazine, Osiris. Her most recent book is The Carver’s Dream (Red Dragon Fly Press). Her poems have appeared in journals such as Abraxas, Great River Review, The Bitter Oleander, Phoenix, Poetry Salzburg Review, North Dakota Quarterly, and elsewhere.