Frozen rain plinks on the pile of tarps as I begin the burial
of an unremarkable summer. The sharp wind tightens the pores
that gaped for months in the heat and I feel young.
Do you remember the year we met when we believed our ghosts had preceded us and did not know the mammoth moons were only a trick of the eye?
There is mold under the cushions.
It must have been spreading since June while I sat
and thought of nothing. Tiny black ants scatter.
At the birdbath, I apologize to the upset sparrows in the buckthorn.
I reach through the veil of ice.
My fingers bleed into a clog of white pin feathers.
The stiff jute rug refuses to be rolled
and we dance in graceless foreplay,
an impassive, frigid first date.
Do you remember the year we met when we believed the aurora borealis followed us and that only dogs could see us and that our ancestors might rise from their ruddy tombs just to behold our unholy, crushing love?
The tarpaulin blooms and sighs over
the summer chairs. A deer with a broken tine turns
back into the woods.
– TERESA KIPLINGER
Photo: Genessa Panainte via Unsplash
Your art both written & physical is amazing!!!
Teresa, Soul-stirring, Thank you for sharing your gifts with us. I am grateful to be blessed by seeing your work.
Beautiful and stirring!
The imagery in your poems jolts me out of my occasional complacence and almost constant anxiety…it brings me around to contemplate my own journey, both good and bad. I would gladly purchase a book of your poems💗. Thank you for sharing your jewels, both written and crafted from metal and fire.
Teresa, what tangible imagery you create and pour out to share with us, beautiful, relatable.😍 Did you photograph the birds on the frosted bushes?💕
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