The
Crest
I trudged up the hill
through the weeds winter killed,
weeds flat against the ground,
by wet snow pressed down.
I sweat, though snow fell heavily,
and mustered ascent mightily.
Rasping, I found in the toilsome
hoisting a comforting tedium.
Even the amusical blizzard
upon the forest floor, immersing
my trodding in icicle clatter,
breaking peace, didn't matter.
The threat of a white-out
on the horizon, nor a lights-out
above by Thor's anger
wouldn't break my linger-
ing when the mountain crested, and pines stood laden,
boughs stooped by wet snow, light fading.
Library
I earn
my bread as a scholar's elf,
and they make fine bread in town.
I eat it butterless, sans company—
same as I shelve: alone.
Dust aggregates and doesn't end
when the day is done.
The collection expands with each receipt;
bound black, bound red, bound green,
past where sight allows.
(Unbound and binding brittle,
binding centuries old, and yesterday's
shipping load.....)
I shelve, and see myself a glitzy spy
in China.
I shelve; I am a huntress
in Montana.
I shelve, a concubine
of Brahmans.
Entertainment is meek
where a whisper bellows,
where a sniffle startles,
and nothing is ever new
but the book selector's queue
of fresh-pressed covers awating
their spots to gather powdering.
Copyright © 2003 Michelle Cartland