Piecemeal summer dies:
    Long winter spreads its blanket again.

    For ten years I have lived in exile,
    locked in this rickety cabin, shoulders
    jostled up against open Alberta sky.

If I were young again, I’d sing of coolness of high
mountain snow flowers, sprinkle of night glow—blue meadows;
I would dream and stretch slim fingers into distant nowhere,
yawn slowly over endless prairie miles.

The grassland is where in summer silence grows;
in evening eagles spread their wings
dripping feathers like warm honey.

If I were young again, I’d eat pine cones, food of birds,
share meals with wild wolves;
I’d have as much dessert as I wanted,
reach out into blue sky, lick the clouds off my fingertips.

But I’m not young anymore and my thoughts tormented
are raw, overworked, sharpened with misery
from torture of war and childhood.
For ten years now I’ve lived locked in this unstable cabin,

    Inside rush of summer winds,
    outside air beaten dim with snow.