All That Remains
Of all the seasons
it is, perhaps, winter
that seeps in the deepest
holds on the longest
faces the struggle to let go
with a tenacity for staying,
the lakeshore a self-portrait
sculpted with her icy fingers-
one of the last she relinquishes-
waning now in these
lengthening days.
The old jack pine bears
her touch still, the way
a lover might, yearning
for one last glimpse,
as if he alone
could keep her here,
the few snowy clumps
on his drooping branches
all that remains before
the first crocus.
Of all the seasons
it is, perhaps, winter
that seeps in the deepest
holds on the longest
faces the struggle to let go
with a tenacity for staying,
the lakeshore a self-portrait
sculpted with her icy fingers-
one of the last she relinquishes-
waning now in these
lengthening days.
The old jack pine bears
her touch still, the way
a lover might, yearning
for one last glimpse,
as if he alone
could keep her here,
the few snowy clumps
on his drooping branches
all that remains before
the first crocus.
[Poem written August, 2009 upon viewing "The Jack Pine" by Tom Thomson, oil on canvas, 1916, on display at the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa, Ontario.]
Photo credit: Deborah P. Kolodji
If you would like to participate in this series, send a photo of yourself composing a poem or writing or a picture of a location where you enjoy writing, along with one of your poems (the type/genre of poem doesn't matter). This series will allow us to see the various locations that inspire us or where we go to write.