We Are All Jealous of Satellites
A poem
IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK
We Are All Jealous of Satellites
My travels have brought me
to the end of the sky
before my eyes were ready
to close. Five years
of cold seasons
lapsed as I grew taller
and the grass that grew
to tickle my knees
bent to the heavy lore
of winter.
For every year starts
and ends
under snow.
This is the stem of our envy.
The cold is much less harsh
as static on a TV screen. The wind
bites without drawing blood
across the skin of imagination.
Distance from danger blunts every knife
and satellites see it all,
but need to give no forgiveness.
We must all forgive the scolds of nature,
that which feeds
and that which bites
bear the same face
(cruel mother)
the same smile.
Up in the sky
where blue bruises into black
and wind is but a whisper,
the cold, a competitor
for metal skin,
that is where true peace floats.
As a bubble on the surface
of an empty lake, resisting all.
We must saddle our envy
like a quick horse. This will take us
to the end of the sky
where winter is nothing
but the beginning
and the end
to the long show.
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