Monarchs and Peregrines

The mountains are near. Glowing eyes
desire to see white powder from under skis,
and weary bones wish to rest and cease toing and froing
on the pendulum of long-forgotten vows,
neither wanting to be the first to give in, to disappoint.
Bonds shatter like fine china given to a young boy,
or glass windows after a youthful game off baseball
gone horribly awry. The dogs bay into the night,
unheard by those who still focus on themselves and not
those who still struggle for a meal or a belly full from anything
that’s not malnutrition. We are futile, self-pitying beings.
Discordant, jarring, jaw-breaking adjectives take to the sky
as if vehemence gave them wings, gilded as the monarch butterflies’,
and hate gave them propulsion akin to the peregrine,
and they strip down layers as if nothing, peel like old skin
shatter defences, reveal what hides and what doesn’t wish to be seen
an inner child, still wanting to see the snow.