1923 was the year
the year you began and
the year you became

an

i m p r i n t

on the world of those
you hadn't even thought of
yet


1957
the year she began
and the year you b e c a m e
the one who would
b e c o m e
my douxlorraine

douxlorraine
as sweet as honey
suckle on the vine
of my thoughts
and fears

i would inherit your
douxlorraine
the things that made you
both beautiful and
scared and
sweet and
soft
and
strong
and
weak

1995
was the year I began
and the year you b e c a m e
my douxlorraine

i don't remember
when we
met
but i know
the
i m p r i n t
of you
in my veins
in my thoughts
in my prayers

it's you.

i would have never known
unless i saw
the light meet your face
that morning.

neither of us are early risers,
but i couldn't waste
a second.

above me,
at 6:40 in the morning,
a perfect blend of
blue, gray, and sincerity,
which was born
on the rising sun,
peered through an ivory curtain,
and landed on a gentle face.

infinity soaked gaze,
honey coated touch,

your color was
the crisp mountain air
through a rolled down
Jeep window.

your color was
a John Prine record
and local barbeque

your color was serene.
it was the light's reflection of
a summer enveloped
by two people
in love with
right now.

-Anna Blake

i left your wine glass
on my bedside table

for seven days
it settled in the very place
that your hands had aimlessly
chosen

staining a ring around a mostly empty bodice.

mostly empty?
barely full?

you see, for me,
the wine glass was
my way of having you
stay as long as I wanted.

I saw your delicate
fingerprints stamped upon
the stem and body

just as they were on mine, under a tin roof
amidst a blanket of summer rain.

                                 ......

i washed the glass tonight

as you boarded the plane to the rest of your life.

i wonder if you'll think of me as you sip on your complimentary glass.

rouge ou blanc, mon amour?
rouge comme mon amour?
ou blanc comme mon remise?

-Anna Blake

I met you in the mountains.
Of evergreens and water
lillies. You never said too much
but still I knew.
I've always known that your kisses are
July and your smell is November.

But I am infinite June.
Half way point.

Forever split.

Between the perfection of your touch,
And your inevitable escape.

-Anna Blake

It’s something in the way
you peek through the door to see me
brush my teeth at night.

Or the way that my tousled bed head
finds its nest in the warmth
between your arm and chest.

Always the right side, never the left.

When I imagine you leaving,
I wonder where my cheek will rest
when the light creeps softly through the window
each morning
When I realize I’m no longer dreaming.

Because you are the way the sun sings
to the earth, absolving all doubt in darkness.

You are the way love looks
when she is reborn
Day after day.

-Anna Blake

To see another sky, another river, I
wanted to be as free as you always say that I am.
When just yesterday, a
letter stole my speech, a whisp
of the person I was moments before-- one full of
promise and expectation. I was now a
passenger whose flight was delayed. A woman
undesirably caught
between hometown comfort, and hometown purgatory in
which I couldn’t locate Hope, until you, and a
faint voice within, whispered that dreams grow with a gust,
strengthened by adversity. Of
course, the wind
still disheveled my hair, and stripped away at walls that I
built up, tactfully, for rejection. But this too will disappear,
with a greater gust, bellowing high above me, like
A robust cloud of thickening smoke.

Anna Blake




The Golden Shovel Reference

“I Try”
By the Staves


“I am a whisp of a woman, caught in a gust of wind, I disappear like smoke.”

I first felt her flow as Blue Lady tea steeped on a delicately crafted doily.

Cranberry Orange Scones paired with doll-sized cutlery.

I’d be excused.

A late bloomer,

steeping slowly from the flowering buds of my very own teapot.



Mothers, sisters, friends, daughters together

sharing a Blue winter in that tea shop.

When at fourteen, womanhood gifted

me the first of many

moments.

This would spark my wondering why women weren’t known

solely for their strength, rich in resilience,

like the blackest tea.



As Blue Lady steeped steadily from the table to the lady’s room.


Anna Blake

Summer’s time has come and gone
The walls, floorboards release a yawn
With nine months then to recoup, recover
From being a home, just for the summer.

Eloquent memories freshly remain
Of friends who nestled within her frame
A cabin of bunk beds, cubbies, fresh air
Where girls unwound with little a care.

Her crevice now holds a left-behind letter
Whose parchment hardens with winter’s weather
Yet the season’s sleet knows the warmer reflection
Of late night secrets and encouraged imperfection.

Spring has sprung most slowly for some
The evergreens exclaim a harmonious hum
Her wooden steps defrost, and patiently await
The coming of campers to the cardinal state.

Fall, winter, and spring all pass
Warm rays have woken the mountains at last
Each cabin’s frame stands taller, *****
While girls, all ages, reconnect.

Anna Blake