by Zebulon Huset

The snowman had to be built on the hilltop.
But the plateau only had space for one ball
and beyond that it was all slippery slope.

The plan was to not plan, just set up shop
at the base, begin a snowball we could call
“The snowman” that had to be built on the hilltop.

No one knows whose rules required us to prop
the symbol so precariously after such a haul
since around us it was all slippery slope.

The Colossus of Rhodes was merely plopped
in a harbor for fifty–four years before its fall.
But, the snowman had to be built on the hilltop.

Cold starless nights, we pray, hope, grope
for something monumentous to rise tall
above and beyond all that slippery slope.

Soon even the last echoes have danced off
and Sisyphus’ hissy fits became squalls
toppling the snowman that had to be on a hilltop
because every shrine is besieged by slippery slope.

by Zebulon Huset

The universe is inky
and opaque.
Nothing only very
very occasionally

punctuated by
something of interest
like the ruminant
vibrations of light,
gaseous clouds,
background radiation.

Terrestrial darkness
is just as daunting,
whether mine or cave
or the deepest of
deep sea trenches —

gravity pushes
on us all and struggle
as I might, I can’t
find a color or glint
of acknowledgement
as its ever–present
thumb crushes us.

But, what I’m really
really saying
is that I’m clam-
happy to be glowing
by your side.

by Claire Scott

As time flies, we are becoming an old folks’ cliche,
although we may not be exactly having fun
with all the scowling doctors and ridiculous tests.
We think each other’s thoughts, no longer
needing words for moments to matter.

Thin and wiry, slightly stooped, like our sagging
front porch with its side by side Adirondack chairs,
red paint peeling like a summer sunburn.
Wisps of thin hair white as O’Keeffe’s bleached bones.
Edging toward eighty and androgyny in our Levis,
Eddie Bauer sweatshirts and seen–better–days sneakers.
Carbon copies we tell our kids, who have no idea what
we’re talking about. They say get Twitter accounts, watch
Apple TV, buy the latest iPhone. Get with the program.
They don’t understand. This is the program.

Restless nights tossed like stray stars. Looking for
a place of ease for an aching hip or a throbbing shoulder.
The first question of the day: did you sleep well?
No longer: what did you dream?
But we still dream. Don’t we? Dream?

We are becoming a cliché. All our eggs
in the frayed wicker basket we bought in Barcelona
a lifetime ago. We stay home most days in the rhythm
of the retired: green tea with The New York Times,
tentative walks around the block, carefully balancing
on walking sticks, long naps after lunch, a little laundry,
a little reading, the evening news before supper.
Get a life insist our kids. Take a senior cruise
to Alaska or an Amtrac to Seattle. You can’t judge
a book we say. The grass is never greener.

Now there is no gap between us
for sparks to fly across. We no longer want
surprises to startle. All that glitters is for magpies.
We live well within the lines of a child’s coloring book,
our relationship like the Nebraska plains
in the dim of winter. White on white.
Comfortable as old boots in the snow.

by Claire Scott

The future is
furling
its wings

too tired to
soar close
to the sun

to sweat in
a tangle
of arms

& legs &
lips &
tongues

what is left
after bodies
no longer

are we buddies
colleagues
friends

with no benefits
do we drag
our drooping

feathers in
the unhoured
hours

while orange
ghosts whisper
orange words

remember?

can brittle bones
lean together
bare birds

on Winter branches
can frayed edges
find the familiar

a touch, a smile
a memory of
white wine &

twisted sheets
who are we
without