Jan Wood
About this Christian Poet:
I have chased my Faith in God, found it in pieces in my community, in the forests, along the lakes and riverbanks of Northern Saskatchewan. I have observed its validation in my mentors, in parenting and teaching. I have been blessed with family and friends and many fulfilled dreams.
All my life I have been driven by responsibility and an intensity that has kept me sleeping with my clothes on, alert, listening for the signs of earthquakes (of which I know nothing), planning escapes from tidal waves and categorizing my emergency supplies. I have worn my hikers through darkness into many dawns, always prepared…for what? I don’t know. If flesh and blood do not inherit the kingdom probably hiking boots are not welcome either. At fifty plus, I am finally learning to recognize the quiet gift in each moment instead of being mesmerized by its sunburst of possibilities.
…finding the words…
imagine your veins hot silver
quickened beyond boiling point
and winter razor-thin riding every nerve
…because it was like that…
knee-deep in snow, we were busy
trying to free the moon from the birch branches
…so nothing prepared me for it…
i mean…things like that just don't happen
on ordinary tuesdays without any warning do they?
i was the arctic, i was the sahara
suddenly inverted feet first in the air
every ion uncurled
perpendicular to where it had been
when the moon sprang loose
and glided helium free in place again
i noticed its string tangled in your hair
and snow sliding silver down your cheeks
because i remember…they were wet
and your eyes spilled something…
like syrup-heat that exploded icicles
and shimmered in the aftertaste
i tried to forget, told myself i'd made it all up
like a dream…but the next day when my body liquefied
and my bones flitted like fish
in the waters beneath my skin
i knew it was no lie and i lay naked in moments
humid and jungle-green beyond all reason
i floated sleeveless in forests of thick hoarfrost
photo-perfect like the palace scenes in dr. zhivago
until undulating waves of field grass and snowbanks
became the mirages of our merging
certain scents and tuesdays betray me
and i am the calm and i am the storm all at once
afraid someone will ask me the time or to pass the salt
and i will not respond accordingly
knowing there really is no trusting the ordinary now
…because when i am last year's death and
this year's life all mixed together i can't concentrate…
and in the middle of an ordinary conversation i might say
something dangerously beautiful like
"there is a yearning in me pungent and potent
as the leaf-mold and raw earth
restrained under a thin layer of spring snow."
Copyright©2004 by Jan Wood