By Blair Hill
I’d like to go on a walk with you
in the landscape of my mind.
I’d show you around the snowy meadows
often shrouded in oppressive darkness.
Most of the time I don’t notice the darkness,
so you’d have to point it out to me.
However, I could show you every dancer
with a snowflake for a tutu,
the singers with clouds for microphones,
and the actress performing a monologue
of Lady Macbeth’s.
I love Lady Macbeth.
We would come across trees with teardrops for leaves;
they would sing in four-part harmony
as we traced their trunks with timid thumbs.
We’d see a red fox dart past us,
never stopping to note our presence.
You would notice a stuffed cat lying on the snow:
Dina, her fabric dampened by
years of desperately requited love.
She would seem vacant like a motel sign,
but come alive when touched.
Her eyes would awaken.
Spring would come.