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 poetry always hits me in my soul. Your words and images capture life the way I feel it. It brings back memories of being a small child, the crispness in the air of the season’s change. Happy memories but missing those who were there
Teresa, this is unbelievably beautiful. It really touched me. Such a wonderful writer and artist you are. Never, never stop….
An absolutely touching and profound poem, just like your (art) jewelry. A pleasure to read.
Your talent abounds! I hope your exhibitions are a smashing success!
Yes this. This is what the first frost of winter makes me feel as well.
I’m in awe Teresa. Incredible writing!
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