By Daryl Farmer, Fairbanks
The sun today is a drooping eye
its lid lifting over the horizon and then,
in early afternoon drowsily closing again.
The December stillness is like an old monk
resting heavy against the sliding door,
and sighing crystals onto the glass.
I read Tranströmer’s poetry by dim lamp.
A psychologist poet from Stockholm,
one cure for this Fairbanks winter.
I have never been to Sweden, but reading
his words I think, this is a place I know
meaning not only the darkness of days
or the subdued sketches of forest snow
at the town’s edge, but also those glimpses
when the interior view adjusts
to the psyche’s shadow, stirring.