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I have told the story many times—
how I came to be exiled
from the winter place,
deemed by my parents to be dead,
cursed by my only brother.
(There would be meadow-grass,
deep and fragrant,
but that would not be
for many seasons.)
Finally I arrived
in a second land of winter—
who’d known there was another north,
with bullwhip winds and cities
built with tunnels in the air?
(Even then,
I must have believed
I deserved the cold.)
I brushed aside
both feeling and fear
with one swipe of the same gloved hand.
*
What hope can there be
for summer
when all you’ve known
is the green of an ice-coated lake,
the rejected spring,
the blue snow squall
that stings the eye?—
(There would be sea-grass
and spin-drift, white sand beaches
lined with palm...)
*
After the earth has flowered
and the veil has lifted
between you
and the glimmering world,
when the drops of blood
you shed
appear to you
as tiny rubies in the snow,
you’ll know
that I didn’t want
to leave you—
little sister,
you will know.