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Vashon House

vashon winterland


take the tongue 
out of the twist
to taste the all
in all that is –
wipe the windows
from the breath
to dance the edges
of each mist –

all the stars
our eyes have lost 
will grow back
into retinas
as we construct
and reconstruct
the entities 
that we call us –

we split infinity
to be
the quintessential
who we are 
into what never
was before.



ice re-sculpts
the whitened pond –
grass hangs frost
upon the ground –

a brittle sun  –
too cold for snow
winters me 
into the cold –

but hidden under
coat and hood –
beneath scarves
and mittened hands –

a silent surge
from breath to blood
transports me 
into warm.



above the ice and swim of fish –
suspended cold – a water drop
evolving out of what is not 
from silvered pond to frozen rock –

within the waking of our sleep 
where all is neither day nor night
we drop our yester-selves to catch 
the moment when the water stopped

suspended between here and there
world edges shift and spill
transforming us into the more
that we could never touch before.



i am antediluvian
mushrooming a frozen sun
to catch this morning in a fog
of underwater shivering –
beyond the planet of my eye
golden fish swim into ice
and pale grasses cloud to snow
with frosted buddha statued still –

collapsing outwards through the day 
i fracture into images
that dance across the splintered pond
in crystalline realities –
between the snowflake and the breath
between the statue and the fence
i fragment to a hundred selves
born out of the god i am –

in each moment of my stare 
wonderment grows multiple
as if i am a mirror ball
ballooning to encompass all –
around – within – above – below –
arctic winds refract the brain
into the opposites of same –
and every-where i am is now
with hoary buddha watching all.



long and wide and silver-pale
low mists weave a frozen shore
as if some giant fantasy
is luring me into its world –

across the grey-white frosted dream
i walk on water – staring down
into the depths of icy realms
where goldfish dart to secrecy –

i am the ancient pacing skies
with shadow boots –
till suddenly –
i CRACK their wintered firmament
and vanish from their ruptured sky.





©pamela swanson 2016