The hockey puck of winter
has scored a goal awaiting
the next center court face-off,
me, the cold, and my thermals.
Somewhere in the world
there is a beach with white sand.
Somewhere there is a balmy breeze
giving bare skin a tropical kiss.
The locals wear next to nothing,
hiding what remains behind Pino Coladas.
The only danger to existence
an occasional falling coconut.
A hard freeze has set in,
I tremble for the woodland creatures.
They know nothing about hockey,
or far away azure oceans and surf.
They trust their instincts
not knowing or caring about one
of the innumerable gods that has
brought this winter wrath upon them.
They do not fight over beliefs,
foreclosures, Christmas credit bills,
infidelity, muggings, rapes, irate
road raged drivers or incompetent
leaders, their need is a hunkering down
into the cycle of survival.
We could learn from them, view them
as more knowledgeable than we mortals.
The simplicity of their lives a mirror
of selection, the eons of experience
ingrained, protected by instincts, and
that great universal existence,waiting,
watching, gently tuning the clock
of eternity and evolution.
Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour
Nice read. Nature’s circle/cycle rolls gently and cogently through these words.
nice one Donald….being an old hockey player….anything with a puck in it…You know I will kick it out or catch it…Being a goalie…cheers
of course, there’s fighting among the animals, too, for territory and dominance and sex, just like the thumbed folk. It’s just that we seem to take pleasure in it, more’s the shame.
Another thoughtful piece, Donald.
Agreed with Barbara. They seem to do it out of mere instinct and survival. We, I think, tend to turn our deep-down reptilian tendencies (dominance, namely) into pleasure and sport. Also, I like how you contrast the white of the tropic scene against the white of your winter landscape.