Arctic Fox – New Poem (First Draft)

Arctic Fox

 

In my hot and sticky dreams last night,

there were three arctic foxes,

close to us,

sniffing our trousers,

licking our shoes.

We had to leave them,

they took it well.

 

After work,

we went for a quiet walk

across fields to the garage

to buy cinnamon rolls and biros.

 

Birds hit the sky, scratching at the clouds,

and there he was, a small, delicate silhouette.

Part light like the white inner bark of a birch,

part dark like earth.

Fur covered feet like a hare,

warmer coat than a polar bear or arctic wolf.

 

Our tongues went slack, our eyes burnt.

We were on common ground with this mythical creature,

who starts shivering at -40.

 

And the world

stopped.

You could have handed me a wasp nest,

and I wouldn’t have cared.

Nothing mattered more than this fox.

We watched until he was so small

I could smudge him with my thumb.

 

We kicked our heels back to camp

dined on cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate

in tiny cups, so thick it sat on our tongues.

I wanted to cover my happiness

with pastry, serve it as a pie.

 

It seemed fitting to thank the Norse Gods

in this place where Sleipnir once stood,

where we watched creator of the Aurora Borealis

in daylight, running for the far North

to touch mountains with his tail

and ignite the sky.

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