perhaps in california, someone dreams of the snow.

it is a small existence.
you dream of corn in the winter,
of the swaying sound of
seagulls on the wind.

it is the month of june
and the two of you are by
the dock, cutting watermelon slices.
his lips are wet.

the gulls become the white drape
of silence.
the barren landscape.
the sound of ice cracking somewhere
deep in the woods.
he used to call you aurora, for the
first time you saw the northern lights.
it was on a projector, in a museum.
the month was april and
the exhibit room was empty.

an ice floe loosens in the night
without any witness.
you cannot remember if you love him,
only that some places
still bear the heat of his life.
the snow covers everything now,
except these small, dull
sparks.

perhaps in california, someone dreams of the snow.

Juniper H.

Joined November 2009

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