the blue of winter

serene white crane strides
through a river that steams,
too swift to freeze

spire of crows over skeletal stands of maple
fields sleep, shadows their dreams

walk through bone cold evening
halo that surrounds the streetlight
vibrates like it is alive

sundogs stalk the pale sky
as if the sun itself were frozen

 

The Danger of Sleeping in Snow

It surrounds you, carves you
into itself without notice,
it is so smooth and tranquil
you are unaware it is happening.
Someone has thrown a mantle
of antiquity over your shoulders
and it feels good, as if it was made
to fit, while still white snow suckles
you away, little bright coal dropped
in a stream, ripples and steam,
all that you seem to be drowned
in the meaningfulness of sleep.
Soar, seek the feeling in fingertips,
fade faster, you fly toward the ineffable,
the inevitable.

An endless chain of crystals binds
you and me to time, creates caverns
of us, remnants of what passed,
breath of the storm in our ear,
strange words when we first heard them,
but now, so familiar, they soothe us,
until we are no longer aware we use them.
Sleeping in snow, we carve ice into a cave
that comforts us as if it is only us, asleep
with safe dreams, as we bind forever
to these frozen chains.

 

the electricity of snow

skates crystalline, the pass
of sunlight to the corner
the zigzag impossible bank
direct to the rods and cones
exposition of white noise
as light crackles about you
crazy explosion of spark
leaps to sky zone, laps
your horizon and keeps
on going, straight to the
North Pole, more than magnetic
like neon flowing at your feet

 

the sibilance of snow

ear packed with wet snow
as you walk home hatless
squeak in a field of frozen
susurration, place of foot
like someone scrunching
Styrofoam, whisper of crystal
as your ears bleed in razor edged
wind, the silent explosion
as the field of absolute white
blinds you and you hear forever
for once

 

Winter Night

Snow falls, thickly, slightly, softly, padding the night
with a weak blue suffused light. On the horizon a lamp
of snowflakes reflects the local hockey rink’s blaze,
a bank of radiance in the white black of the sky.
The sound of keening skates echoes, followed
by the slap of puck struck and hollow boom
as it hits the boards—otherwise all is silent
as spinning webs and silent stars rain in slow motion.
You pretend there is enough time to count
each flake as it falls; throughout your dreams
it will continue to fall until you wake next morning
to a brilliant new landscape made of crystalline
light and all that remains of Winter’s transformation
of the night.

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