Flakes

.

I drifted in into a dream, and back to reality
yet, it was surreal; I could not distinguish its veracity
Seated on a comfortable chair of Le Musee d'art contemporain de Montreal
I follow the film of Iceland folklore and drift into sleep.

An American man in a cafe this morning, asked out loud,
"Why doesn't anyone smile around here?"
I too had wondered this, as I quietly observed
It must have something to do with the Arctic winds
which generate a cold so deep, that it crystallizes water

Like the flakes which rest upon my lashes
and melt with the warmth of my lips
This cold which seeps into the bone
And whips the flesh into submission, leaves
routes and tracks deeply embedded on the face

It must be the cold which causes lack of merry
except for the little children with rosy cheeks...
and eyes agleam. They so look forward to Santa's visit
As their parents look with dismay at their dwindling purse.
Perhaps they too wish Santa would materialize.

Sleep threatens to overtake me, how can this be
the museum of contemporary art sets up pieces
which any five year old can paint?
The warmth lures me to close my eyes and dream
I dream I am part of the folklore tale, which draws me in.