one winter alone in your little cabin
you worked meticulously on model ships
fingers looped thread after thread—tied tiny knots
made sails: red silk sails
blue sails the color of cornflower
stiff white sails cut from a sheet, glued, and dried
from each deck you positioned cannons—
stealth down to the least detail
the mind of war…
all that was long ago
today no boat streams across a calm Point Caroline Bay,
but explosions in the surge and swell of choppy waters
still interrupt my sleep
who can say when our words
will fall back upon us
like a wounded animal’s last breath?
old lover, it is the deadlock hour—night closes in—
you are far from me, and I am old
I winter slowly—measure every step
when in dreams I meet your face
(pale blue eyes)
I find not love, but death
Linda Swanberg received her masters from the University of Montana. She now studies with Tobin Simon, co-director of the Proprioceptive Writing Center in Oakland, CA, and has studied with Richard Hugo and Madeline DeFrees. A lifelong resident of Montana, she lives in Missoula with my husband, Gregg, and tends a large shade garden. She is also a pianist and beginning cellist.
Euphony Journal 