Rejoice
Single
bird perched upon snow covered tree
he huddles,
head nestled out of the wind
swaying
his thin frame ‘mong branches blown free,
desolate
landscape, lone bird wonders when
this
storm will subside, the sun to emerge.
Snow
covers feathers, his beak under wing.
Lifts
up his head, storm seems on the verge;
sun
breaks through snow sky, he’s ready to sing.
Flies
over meadow now coated with snow,
straight
to a farmhouse with silos of corn,
scattered,
the seeds, they call from below,
landing
to feast on this cold sun-filled morn.
Recalls
the chill night he spent in the tree,
rejoice
the morning, when storm set him free.
Julie
A. Dickson
Exeter,
NH
Secret Melon
Lying on the floor in the hallway
unseen
I saw grownups in black slacks,
lace collars
a party in my parent’s house
hidden
I wanted sweet cantaloupe melon,
watching
mother cut fruit all afternoon
fruit salad
for guests she said and only smiled
at my request
for a bite of melon, ripe and delicious
wait, she said,
the leftovers, you can have breakfast
I frowned
I crept into the dining room, under the table
reached up
quickly grabbed a piece of melon,
juicy cantaloupe
I popped it quickly into my mouth,
so delicious.
I crawled back to my bed, still tasting,
happily
I went back to sleep now, waiting
for breakfast
Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH
Survival
When
words escape me like so many dreams
everything
changes, different it seems.
Travel
upon memory buried in snow,
while
drifts blow over wherever I go.
I
trip over roots, hidden -- I fall
on
my knees but I realize that overall
the
whole point of a journey varies;
some
may stumble while others tarry,
confused,
might wander among the rubble,
pick
through detritus that caused this trouble,
reminisce
smiling past times when I knew
a
trembling voice, from one of a fool.
Isolated,
alone in a din,
Ignored
or passed over -- turn myself in-
to
the fray, if I write about life,
will
they recognize, imagine my strife?
Yes,
overcome, I’ve lived onto this age,
earned
the right to own all of my rage.
A
pass is issued, somewhat of a badge,
a ticket,
an entry to lift up this latch.
Open
a new door, within my own time –
appreciate
brilliance, begin to unwind,
unravel
the voices beneath the snow,
whisper
survival through words I now know.
Julie
A. Dickson
Exeter,
NH
Ashes
I know just where my father’s ashes are interred,
but I wonder if I really knew him.
My mother’s ashes were buried next to his,
but while his were in a faux-granite urn,
hers had been dumped, unceremoniously
from a cardboard box directly into the ground,
by my father ten years earlier.
I thought of this atrocity, this role-reversal,
how much my mother hated dirt,
would have preferred the clean sealed urn.
It was he, who would have wanted to be dumped
into the ground or over the lake he loved,
but instead he was locked inside an urn.
Sometimes I wish I could have torn open his urn,
thrusting him to the wind, scooping up the memory
of my mother, to capture her essence
but then I realize that she is more free
than my father will ever be.
Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH
