The Sand Hill Review http://www.sandhillreview.org 2004
Winter
in Hamlin
It is winter, she is cold, deflated
like an old woman's handbag, stained,
a desiccated calfskin that no amount
of leather balm can ever resurrect.
Gone is the nourishing music of clouds,
cirrus, cumulonimbus of summer.
Now there are only sleek rats gorging
on her meager rations in the root cellar.
Gone is the eerie spell of the bagpipe,
inflated goatskin rhythmically squeezed
between ribs and elbow, forcing clouds
of spectral weather through a punctured pipe
while some nimble fingered lover
moved her hands as if she had a plan,
as if there was more than a low pitched drone,
as if the rats would follow the piper.