How many words for snow what could be long-awaited or sudden sea change overnight the gulls are beside themselves the city roofs are white ice-plated pavement you are far and likely to stay that way for a while the sky is still flakes dislodge in the breeze whole trees dissolve into white pixels and then it all starts up again like an orchestral chorus overwrought and beautiful it makes its own time
this day was longer than the day before it late filtered sun on snow-laden trees winter is textural rime ice and powder everything built upon another cold pastiche this punched out step in a snowfield an irreversible mark sharp punctuation but not indelible this night this storm will erase it nothing lasts not even nothing
Such a long long way to go and still think maybe not– call it a joke or call it a knife it gets the point across . Real snow recently deep stuff cathartic erasure a blank slate for a blank stare for whatever can’t be said . Hesitation is an answer delay is an answer even silence is an answer yes, it can be heard– in the depths of the glades my ears were ringing […]
Birds scatter, lacking surface tension, cohesion. They barricaded the sidewalk, but only on one side, turning back it said DANGER. Even a shrug would be too decisive. Nothing sticks, an oilcloth sky, raindrops and seagull droppings. Could have been much worse, but wasn’t
Too icy to leave, weekend in town, a radio on somewhere, drowsy, staticky, non-descript winter, truly in the thick of it. Each year it still comes as a surprise. Transitory states: is this wet snow, or cold rain? And why make distinctions? Strange dreams this morning, late to the Christmas party, searching for a seat. Today is the day they’ll take the tree, make a note of it, the birds in the hedge by the […]
Day and night, vise-like, bookends to whatever this is. A return? Or stalled momentum. Pieces of salt, like stars, stud the black ice. This year drawn out to its breaking point– a twist of the champagne cork– anticipation is such a terrible ache. And this cold cuts to the bone. Waiting for a word, a sign, breath suspended in the frigid air, and fingers gone numb, only hurting when they touch something warm– a loss […]
More North than home, this morning-still forest– dull today, awaiting more snow, more sky, more anything– a drowsy forest, half-sleeping under packed-down ice, still dirt where the sun breaks through, on some days, but not this one, no more day now than hours ago, barely more than night, the sun somewhere in its low arc, somewhere under these insulating clouds, very little moves, the lake comes as a surprise, so silent at its banks, even […]
Afternoon as threshold, precipice. Mid-week, mid-month, equipoise and the cry of a woodpecker. They say the snow’s all done, and now that it’s light later we hacked back the blueberries that won’t produce, severely, taking them down to the ground, provoking life from dormancy, or: hoping. An hour later, still, shears in hand going at spouts and suckers in the bay laurel, getting dark out, and cold, still, to bring order! An evening act, as […]
late morning, no snow it may have rained but is not raining presently a vacuum cleaner running somewhere, removing the evidence, making it possible to forget. Somewhere near here the tide turns away a gradual recession you have to stay and watch to see but it’s blocks and blocks away and not really ocean, more constrained bay and I recuse myself from all sorts subtlety this morning, bare streets and indifferent traffic, turn over in […]
and dreaming of artichokes realistically with fine threads and coarse skin otherwise this winter might devour me, at night looking up spreads muhammara, peppers, roasted red, Aleppo, the roughest cut of salt, cumin earthy as dirt, rude scallions, but in just the right amount, tempered, a counterpoint, what lasts? rehearsals for the inevitable, blue-blooded kale and enough lemons to drown out the world, citrus affront, oil and pith, shock, doctrine, if life gives, you make
OPTIONAL POETRY 