Nightsun

Eleanor Wilner

The palest flowers/ ash, snow....
--Constance Merritt, "Partial Rose"

Winter in the words, flakes of snow
the only flowers, abundance of
perfected cold that keeps the ground
so warm. Buried there, no
grave, but the hibernating bear,
huge in his den, slowly using summer's
feast in the silent night of winter,
pulse slowed, brain grown
somnolent, his life the slow hum
of the system turned down low,
fuel efficient, sweet sleep,
though, now and then, a light
glimmers on the drowsing
river of a dream, where
the bright salmon forever swim
upstream... the great fur
mound of the bear stirs
as the fish leaps, the paw's out
in a flash of claws, closes
on the flailing muscle;
in dream, it is all good: the leap,
the catch, the helpless clash
of appetites--one for the home
stream, one for flesh against winter--
while outside, the snow softly falls
thicker and thicker, holding
the creature who sleeps
curled like a hand
in the warm mitten
of earth, unaware of
the cold world above:
backs bending, curses,
the scraping of shovels--
that softness,
its terrible weight.