Sunday Spring Dreaming

My  dream crawled through my mind's attic door,
timid and tremulous, fearing I would fall.
Would I misstep, kiss the dusty old floor,
and lie helpless, unable to rise at all? 

Alas, too weak to dance and prance 
among boxes, mirrors, trunks, and cases, 
I shuffled and tiptoed the tinnitus dance,
hissing and shushing, through piles of old places.

Baleful, my gaze raked shelves of old dreams --
packed with plans and roles and paintings unhung, 
empty pages, and poems, and unfinished reams 
of fierce stories untold and sweet songs unsung.

I wandered, I wobbled, and brushed a dark window,
Releasing a sunbeam that lanced through the dark.
I followed its beam through dolorous shadow,
It struck an old mirror with a rainbow spark.

I glanced in that glass and what did I see?
The face of my father scowled back at me!

I suddenly woke in my rocking chair, 
Warm from the sun and the afternoon air... 
And made plans for spring cleaning then and there.

Mick  McKellar

May 2026 

Winter Wind

Don’t let the winter white wind take my name.
Don’t let my voice be lost among the drafts
That sift my words until they sound the same,
And drive the cold through wall and window paths.
Don’t let the drifting dust of time deface,
Or hide the flashing twinkle in my eye,
The one that lights the wreckage of my face,
Or flares as the campfire’s last embers die.
Don’t let my warmth be wasted in the cold.
Hug me close and share what I can give.
When young, I shared too little -- now, I’m old,
And time grows short for me to share and live.
I want to share my love until my death,
Until the winter wind steals my last breath.

Mick McKellar
January 2026