Headlights search
a dark December snow.

The road threads out moments
those coveted lines, where forecasts and open palms
reveal nothing;

and I slip back, turn off the light,
hear the same old song again;
the same quarter notes punctuating the still air,
waiting for a pause or a rest.

And I remember you, wrapped and shiny,
the sanctuary of St. George’s Island,
our walk together, us safe from the sadness
ramped up against the water’s edge,

those silver fish pawns of day,
clawing at the black river, just below the skin,
their unholy eyes glaring from the ice,
the moonlight sugaring the rooftops
and the cold of your cheeks.

Hot chocolate and a quick laugh,
poinsettias in the botanical garden,
a fence of bright coloured parrots,
your smile pink as orchids, cut the chill.

Children played games of living life,
their voices high as wind in grain, rising as ripened seeds,
cheeks blood, eyes coal;

While monkeys swung
from end to beginning, then back again,
Christmas songs swirled
inside this frosted, snow globe now.

Above our heads, the heavens were
strung through trees as veils of light,
as each star gave up their piece of sky,

and the warm reds and blues and greens
that speckled the back of your eyes,
and left a glowing residue to radiate the ground,
revealed someone I’d never known before.

And this imperfect evening would never be again.

Under the twinkle of Christmas lights
my glasses fogged and head sprung open,
I could almost see you.

~ Rob K. Omura

Rob K. Omura lives in Calgary, Alberta, where he lives from oil plumes, surrounded by vistas and all the trappings of modern living. He prefers to spend his days hopping mountain ridges in the Rockies, where there is nothing else to consider by the next step and the majestic views, and sometimes he even dabs the wet ink and ties words on to lines. His fiction and poetry appears or is forthcoming in numerous literary journals, ezines, and anthologies including the New York Quarterly. His poetry aired on CBC Radio for National Poetry Month in April, 2008. He was a 2009 Pushcart nominee. Sometimes he works on his novel, and at other times, he drinks coffee, sighs and wonders when he’ll get back to work on his novel.
“Writing poems is like carving stone; although you often see what the stone wants to be, it takes a sharp chisel and a little blood and sweat to bring it forth. You don’t create the stone; you merely give it the shape it wants to be.”

Rob is a founding member of the RE:ACT Art & Community Together Collective.

Read more of Rob K. Omura’s poetry here:

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