It is only in summer
that she dreams
cool coverlets of white
free of the hints of dirt
and piss that shade reality.
On sultry nights whitecold she feels
it melting from her heat, the moonlight
making it sparkle, adding sheen to her
moist flesh. Only in summer, long
after winter coats have been mothballed, snow
shovels hidden behind mowers, bags of mulch, rakes
do her dreams crystallize--
no two of them alike. It's then her mind drifts,
becomes desirous of cool white
flakes falling on her tongue, longs
for the very thing she'll curse
a few short months from now.

Ronnie R. Brown

(Previously published in Spire, Vol. 3, #10 and on the web
as part of the TRUCK poetry series.)

Highway yields to gravel road,
then cottage lane.
We open the windows wider
as the car gradually slows,
guiding our transition
from city rush
to cottage wander.
The lake sparkles in greeting,
and the last turn reveals the cottage,
sun-dappled and serene,
waiting hopefully.
We emerge from the car,
inhale the sweetness of trees and water,
hear the rustle of birch leaves,
the sigh of pines.
We pull up the blinds
to welcome in the sun,
throw open windows
to the fragrant breeze,
drop bags, empty coolers,
then throw off our clothes
and run for the lake.
The first plunge
washes the city from our skin –
now we have arrived!

Anne Hofland

Windblown leaves make music
Like an obedient rustling orchestra,
onstantly changing with the wind's tempo.
Once the wind-wafted symphony is done,
The wind's wiffled instruments hang limp,
Unable to entertain in their windy musical incline.
Until the next gusty conductor puffs along
To begin the next whirlwind melodic blow.

Owen Wagg

A tender line upon the western red;
The far off city towered and roofed in blue,
Gives off a illuminant haze
That seems to have power over
The stars that singly, then in flocks appear,
Like jets of silver from the violet dome.

Trudging along the darkened trail
Silence pervades
The loneliness of this forsaken ground,
That has seen time march along,
For an eternity it seems,
While it remains here.

The frost that stings like fire upon my cheek
Makes me remember that I,
Am indeed still alive out here,
While I see ahead
Across the open fields for miles ahead
The frost yet waiting for me,
Blowing fiercely with bracing intent,
With its hoarfrost fire.

Perhaps I will daydream my way through
That too, which has not happened yet,
As I daydream my way here
Through this same frost.

Once I have walked upon
The rippled sheet of snow where the wind blew,
Turning one cheek after the other,
In steely defiance of its unrelenting blow,
I'm finally triumphantly heading
Towards the city lights
And then the golden moon to light me home?
To Ottawa.

Owen Wagg