Hiraeth
I knew my iPhone could not
capture the magic of the trees
shrouded in hoarfrost:
the aftermath of ice fog
that descended from the peaks
today. Instead, I engraved
the glittering view. Saved it
for summer, when the snow will
have transformed into pollen
drifting from cottonwoods
that will thaw and bloom,
like our irreconcilability.
Unbidden, your love
of winter crept into my mind.
I knew your fingers
would turn to ash. My own
reached for the smartphone
in my briefcase. But traffic
was too thick and I drove
down the hill too quickly
to safely snap a shot of the clouds
hovering off the mountains
I somehow feel are mine.
So I chiseled this view
from the ice and kept it whole
for a day when I will drive
back to where I was before
you left home. Before you
were lost to endless horizon.
No cordillera to guide me.
Ray Ball grew up in a house full of snakes. She is a history professor, Pushcart-nominated poet, and editor at Alaska Women Speak. Her chapbook Tithe of Salt came out with Louisiana Literature Press in 2019, and she has recent publications in Ametheyst Review, Coffin Bell, and Moria. You can find Ray on Twitter: @ProfessorBall
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