Cassandra’s Tears

Tears of joy, tears of pain, we are reflected in the salt-water pools we create. So let us build a fleet of paper boats and sail them on our ocean of indecision, laughing at the wind-whipped white-crested waves that would wash over us, drowning us in our own despair, yet somehow never vanquishing us in the end.

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Location: Lennoxville, Quebec, Canada

Wednesday, March 30, 2005


by Ralph Gustafson (1909 – 1995)

Procrastination fumbles
Every frond
Of forest-snow; across
The frozen pond

The plane of sunlight scrapes
Concealment thin,
On north-banks cuts away
Each ravelin.

The tooth of April chumbles
In the mud,
Razing history where
A footstep stood;

The crusted runnels sag
Beneath the weight
Of sun; the brittle drifts

Abrupt, the cables of
The landscape lapse,
The hidden girders of
The frost collapse

And like a blast of gold,
A clarion,
A thousand startled waters
Take the sun.


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