Poem in the Voice of the Land in Winter

Poem in the Voice of the Land in Winter

Arrows of geese soar over me.
I am in love with the northern archer
Who shot them, how his quiver shivers
With the tension of the bowstring.
I shouldn’t be. His kind snow me under.
Then I seem dead, cradling seeds that lack
The light they need to grow like those 
Scattered in the tombs of pharaohs.
But I prefer winter, when there is nothing
Really to feel but the lonely boy
Pulling his red sled up one of my breasts
By a length of twine his father tied,
The quick stillness of rabbits in brush piles,
The sniveling of chainsaws in woodlots.
Your poet got it right — spring hurts,
All those green spears piercing my chest
Just as the tusks and discs of your plows
Sink down into my tenderness
Like threshers digging into dinner.
Give me winter, arrows of geese
Arcing harmlessly over,
The boy laughing in spite of himself
As he feels what it feels like to feel,
And my northern archer, his strong arms
That can never hold me.