Wolf Prints
S
Sheena Blackhall
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I write in a cold climate.
There may be a moon,
There may not. There may be snow,
There may not.
I write from need, from no-need.
I write from joy from no-joy.
My words are stones,
Skimming ancient water.
Finned poems,
Five fat salmon leap
Up the ladder from wave, to sky, to page.
The Wolf-King pads through mist, through no-mist,
Weaving in and out
Of the mind's dark chamber.
I sit by the bank unmoving,
Watching for wolf prints,
Waiting to catch the drips
From the salmon's slap-dash tail.
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