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  • Journey From the Wasteland

    A citrus moon drips cognac like sickles from the sky

    yet her glass is empty.

    Her feet crunch the glossy snow,

    tracks fall in circles;

    somewhere a dulcimer plays dirges.

    Towering treetops wear glittery gloves;

    shimmery ice smoothers the trunks.

    Icy fingers rattle; moaning trees creak.

    Sequined ball gowns hang from bare branches;

    she cannot reach them.

    Tuxedos chant vespers from hollow logs;

    a crimson fox scatters bits of hearts; all broken,

    their color stain the stark whiteness.

    She tries in vain to gather them to her,

    as paper monkeys dangle from the bumper of a Greyhound Bus.

    In search of long-stem roses; all twelve,

    she plunders the wintery snow-scape

    wearing a suit of armor in need of oil.

    The woman weeps;

    sleet slides down her cheeks.

    From her royal throne the Great Horned Owl hears the sobbing;

    she scolds the woman.

    Beating her wings wildly she demands that the search cease.

    The Great Horned Owl banishes the woman from the woodland,

    and orders the biting breeze to escort her out of the dark.

    She wakes bathed in beaded sweat; her sheets twisted.

    Brown brittle roses

    hang

    from long, brown stems; all twelve

    in a vase that thirsts.

    She makes a basin from her gown

    and plucks the dead petals

    crushing them between her fingers

    scrapping flakes from her moist palms.

    Walking barefoot to the edge of the wood

    she tosses the broken bits over the moonlit snow...

    they skitter to the wind...

    the darkness swallows them... without flinching.

    Pamela Wilonski

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