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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 7, Number 2, June 2013

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Marjorie Buettner and Mike Montreuil
Chisago City, Minnesota, USA and Ottawa, Ontario, Canada


Winter's Afternoon

As I write poetry and eat oranges on a winter's afternoon, the old dog stirs in her sleep like a fish under a winter lake, somnambulant and heavy. I, too, try to come up for air in and out of poems again and again only to find an image of my frozen face etched on the ice above me.

the wind
whispers your name
bird song

The ink, not yet dry, still smudges despite all the years. The words are a bit fuzzy, part of the alphabet of a broken heart. My fingerprint is still visible, stamped on the margin of the page, where words, read only moments before, tell me I was never alone. They were the ones that spoke of love, truth, and the times we were under a soaring sun. Words never repeated.

dark of the moon
fish house lights blinking
deep into night

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