The Northern Lights Are a Billowing Antique Gown
I am sitting in my black slip.
Violet ice and pretty drifts of blue snow
blow in from Lake Superior and gather on my windowpane.
I look out at the lake of elegant horizons.
Under a cape of stars I see a large lake of ice mountains,
glistening in moon-swept diamond fields.
I put on my floral kimono.
Lavender perfume drifts through m y boudoir.
My boudoir is twinkling magically beneath the Northern Lights.
The Northern Lights become transformed into a lovely antique dress.
Oh, billowing clouds of sculpted fabric!
I slip into my antique skating dress rimmed in ermine.
Once again, I am a Skating Queen of the Ice Circus.
I sit in my antique skating dress and look out at Lake Superior.
I suddenly feel the feminine beauty of the Northern Lights overhead.
I am no longer the Skating Queen of the Ice Circus that I once was.
I will wear a lovely antique dress sewn from the Northern Lights.
I put on my salmon colored corset,
I slip into my pink petticoats and violet crinolines.
I stare at the Northern Lights.
I open the mysterious hatbox from 1919.
My fingers, adorned with sapphire rings and scarlet nails,
lift an enormous hat of grandmother plumage.
Plumes waft, cascade, and frame my face.
My ruby bow-tie mouth, my French mouche!
Light flashes in from the lighthouse on the North Shore.
I listen to the fog horns caressing the walls of my boudoir.
I slip into a dress made of Northern Lights.
Now, I am a woman!
Pétrena Lommen