Late last night, while the wind rattled at the windows, I finished reading my book club’s choice, The Snow Child, by Eowyn Ivey. Knew I had to make an attempt at a poem about the experience.
Story behaved as if discovered
not invented or made up,
not easy in its unfolding
this Found thing, unearthed with effort,
solid as a boulder, real as a red fox.
It did not need our eyes on it
as, led down from the mountains,
it turned from fur to words on a page.
Wary creature, deep stone, could only be told
by one who knows and loves.
It followed a storyteller who did not forget,
who made sure to fold all that matters
into a tale of snow and wilderness,
magical children, lanterns to skate by
beneath a cold sky, northern lights,
swan wings sewed into wedding gowns,
loyalty and long, long loves,
the whole salted with tears
and found joy.