We have been sleeping out in the open.
the stars are clean,
sharp as ice, the snow
around us, unmarked,
except for our footprints
that lead forward
from your cabin of cedar and bark.
I am coming to know you
by your silences
and the soft patterns of your speech.
Your voice stumbles over words
as if you are just learning them
or have not spoken them in some time.
We have arrived at the river
that holds your memory.
We are waiting for the white bears.
Last night you told me
you saw them as you journeyed
to the north end of the river
for a bucket of ice
to melt over the fire;
two in a midnight pool
of fresh snow.
They were tearing at the trees
at the left bank of the river,
searching for food
beneath the wet-green underbark
and, like giant myths,
the moon held them up to you.
I have seen nothing of them
and wonder if they can be real;
I have seen no tracks in the snow,
have not heard their voices
calling in the dark
yet I want to believe they are there.
We have waited for midnight
so we can see the bears together.
Now it is time and we rise to the cold.
You stoke the fire
and sparks drift up
in red pinpoints of light.
Our path descends to the river
where loss and fear lay all around.
Your hand in mine is warm and strong,
something needing to be found.
I want to see the bears
shamble across the snow,
shaggy and certain on shadowy ground
under this sky, heavy with stars.
At dawn
you say we will take some supplies
and venture deeper into the forest
to the cave of icycles
where you are certain the bears dwell.
I still have not seen them
yet I believe I heard their voices
rise out of the wind last night
as we stood on the edge of the forest.
They were calling just out of reach.
We gather our belongings,
turn our faces to the rocks and hills.
I am travelling alone with you in this country
though I do not know its name.
-- Genine Hanns