“Cold Town” (2004)
Albert John Belmont
Oil on Canvas
In distant fullness, cold, airless,
white ice light pales
in the fist of winter.
Casts her borrowed shine
through shifting wind-bent oaks,
like a crazed-lens lantern
swings
its unremembered light.
A rare touch
on forest floor roots
and moldering peat,
untended graves
of paupers and slaves, broken
stones and settled bones, asleep
below fox tracks in snow.
Winter moon, snow moon
solstice healer, teacher
revealer.
Giver of midnight sight
and calm reflection,
space to shadow, shade
to darkness.
White ice light, cold, airless
angles thin
in waning phase, shrinks.
Like you from me
and me from you.
Your intentional winter
compels
my refusal of spring.
Bruce Bailey: I was born in Michigan and spent my first 30 years there before moving to Charlotte. Many of my poems draw on personal experiences—travel, work, relationships etc. My career in heavy industry shapes much of my experience, and I feel a kinship to Philip Levine—another Michigander who grew up in the unforgiving world of the automotive industry. I was fortunate to have opportunities to travel as a young person. I never lost interest in experiencing new cultures. After 40 years in the South, this is home—but my place of origin still travels with me, deep inside.