Daily Diary, Day 733:
DANCE-DANCE-DANCE
Seasons dance to the orange of poppied:
Through arctic seasons,
burning spirits
of ice and cold
dance
to the drum beats
of their mother sun.
Beasts dance to the red of blood:
In the world
of san-turned seasons,
sea beasts
and high-land caribou
dance
on clouds of hunger
with the ice and wind.
People dance to the white of cold:
In the point
and counterpoint of wind and cold,
in the pas de deux
of ebbing seal
and flowing caribou
Inuit
move
in a sacred place
of life and death
Joseph Locke
It's been 100 degrees for the past few days here in San Diego, only got down to 80s last night. Pretty miserable. So it felt good to do another of my father's Inuit poems to remind myself of cold weather.