Ravens
All day they fly
between the sharp hands of wind
dropping wood and water syllables—
Ravens
All day they fly
between the sharp hands of wind
dropping wood and water syllables—
enough to make us think
the frozen lake retreats,
the scrubby willows
have learned a new song,
the snow speaks oddly
to our feet.
Longest night
Drunk with belief
and loneliness
we leave the
darkest bower
mumbling our
individual winters,
the cold so different
to each of us.
And each of us
having longed
in the deepest way
of the heart,
through hope
and the indication
of calendars,
might resent the moon’s
second-hand light
that forgets to warm
our faces but fills
the snow tracks
of tree squirrels
with blue shadow
level as teaspoons.
Winter equinox
Winter has carved
small caves
in our hearts,
pulled his boots off,
called up
for more snow.
A realization
that hurts a little,
makes our minds
anxious and full
of complaints,
like huskies
chained to their
dog houses,
their long whimpers
carrying further
in the cold.
Clea Roberts lives in Whitehorse, Yukon on the Takhini River. Her poems have appeared in The Antigonish Review, CV2, The Dalhousie Review, The International Feminist Journal of Politics, Lake: A Journal of Arts and the Environment, The Malahat Review, Prism International, and Room. Roberts has received fellowships from the Vermont Studio Centre, the Atlantic Centre for the Arts, and is a three-time recipient of the Yukon Government Advanced Artist Award. Her work has been nominated for a National Magazine Award and her poem, “When We Begin to Grow Old,” won the After Al Purdy Poetry Contest. Clea co-organizes the Whitehorse Poetry Festival.
