Arctic Circle

If the strings of a 3/4 violinare at rest, if the two horse-hairbows repose in their case—the case holds the blue of lakesand the whites of snow;she posts on a horse inside a barn;rain splatters on the skylightduring the night; she inhalesthe smell of newly born chickensin a stall—if the intervalbetween lightning and thunderis a blue dagger, if she hearsGavotte in D Major as he drivesin silence past Camel Rock—she stirs then drifts into featheredwaves of sleep; a healer rebuildsher inner moon and connectionto the earth, while she playsHangman with her mother;she stops running out into the coldwhirlpool dark; behind his eyelids,green curtains of light shimmeracross the polar sky; she has difficultyposting with one foot in the stirrup—if he stands, at minus fifteen degrees,a black dot in the snow—she ridesbareback to regain her balance;he prays that diverging raysemanate from a single quartz crystal;he prays that her laughter beJune grass, that the jagged floatingchunks of ice ease and dissolve; he prays when she lights a tinycandle on a shelf; reindeer eatlichens and browse among marshesat the height of summer—if she bows and hears applausethen puts her bow to the string,if she decides, "This is nothing,"let the spark ignite horse becomebarn become valley become world.