Stacey Haislop
WINTER NIGHT BY A WINDOW
The wind rules stark dark trees,
thinking itself a tryant,
opressing night with a bite.
...The chill crunches the stars.
The window shows the moon-
Exposed frost-whipped,
flinching behind woolen clouds.
That pink aura,
A certain indication,
does not assure me of morning.
Still there is an hour.
At least.
The earth could freeze on its axis.
Then only me.
BRINGING DAISIES
The night sounds are back.
Dark conspires.
I want to ask you what they are
...under these strange constellations
I cannot name.
Except Orion.
The night sounds frighten me.
Daisies you bring come morning grow wild
by the lane in their white caps
seeking the logic of a smile,
the weave of a fairy crown.
He loves me...he loves me not.
A milk glass vase waits
for your finger-grasp tug,
to pull those mini-suns.
Optimism on stems.
CRUEL CHILL
Autumn always comes-
cricket chant and crimson death-
giving up leaves and robins.
Part of some private arrangement.
The air holds a cruel chill
brittle as marigolds in terra cotta.
The sky clinches pierce-blue as if stamped
by some mad god who can't stop
and will collapse in azure exhaustion finally
in early November.
The brick sidewalk, hardly warm,
leads my bare feet to the mailbox.
I wonder if I can outlast the winter in
its sheerness and flatness.
I think of ice storms and slipping down and
all the ills cocoa cannot cure.
EXCEPTION
Certain things belong where they are.
Like bluebirds in cherry trees picking their favorites,
stems falling like notes losing their grip on melodies.
Or snow like a new bride in February
secure in her love for the cold, their white commitment.
Or rain on our umbrella on that sloppy sidewalk.
The sky could see that red dot shining,
an ominous heart over our heads.
Certain things belong where they are.
Except cracks in china tea cups,
denied steaming water, a delicate stir-
leaving saucers abandoned in cabinets,
tea a ghost.
DECLARATION OF AN AUTUMN EVENING
Come inside by the fire
before the cocoa cools and
marks itself on the earthenware mugs.
Leave the pumpkin half-carved
on this morning's paper,
anticipating its new face.
Let the scarecrow wait
haggard and scrawny on his pole.
We will plump him tomorrow.
Read to me. In October's chill
warm me in poetry's wool.
Take down Shelly or Yeats
(it doesn't matter which)
from the bookcase in the backroom.
Pronounce every word
crisp as apple cider.
Speak each line sharp as the aroma
of leaf-crunch under foot.
Take my hand.
Read to me.
Then afterward make me forget
if it was Shelly or Yeats you chose.
