"... A scattering of dark leaves stood up, chased tourists, chased till the wind dispersed them ..."

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Peter recommends these on line literary sites.

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Peter Robinson

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Peter Robinson reads "Winter Interiors" in Real Audio

Peter Robinson

Winter Interiors
for John and Christine Roe

1

Waking to low-angled sunlight
aglow in white curtains, in a sliding screen,
on wooden-framed and sand-encrusted wall,
to the smell of a loaf baked overnight
and, despite the season, kept from harm
in that devastated city of all places,
I lift my good ear from the pillow, turn
(as if no longer needing to yearn
for anything more) and find the warm,
steady-breathing faces
of a mother and child in your chilly room.


2

Though just now, unseasonable snows
like frozen spume on a Hokusai wave
have whitened out the distances,
draped pine branches with their ermine -
though we are not all states, all princes,
and there's never been another School of Love -
back to the days of numbed senses
at condensation-beaded windows,
we're giving it our best to survive;
though never very good at close family,
at accepting dependence because strong enough,
in the still of a difficult winter, who knows?
Perhaps we're learning to be.




Surfaces of Things

Surrounded by crows
near the writers' museum,
a child threw her crumbs.

Grass tufts thrusted through
asphalt to the castle grounds'
abandoned classrooms.

Currents on the lake
drew a pink line of blossom
across poised water.

Then fresh breeze ruffled
trim feathers on a hawk's wings:
surfaces of things.

That's what it felt like.
A scattering of dark leaves
stood up, chased tourists,
chased till the wind dispersed them -

embittered posthumous lives.