Winter Poem Fragment #6 (28 December, 2015)
It is late and cold.
A tiny, rusted windchime sounds.
I hear geese in the distance.
I drop my shoulders.
It is late and cold.
A tiny, rusted windchime sounds.
I hear geese in the distance.
I drop my shoulders.
Towering pine trees
That were young in my grandfather’s youth
Sway against the winter sunset.
Some of the many geese who have occupied the small pond
In the center of town
Fly over in a neat flock of eleven,
The places where their feathers are white, glowing orange.
The ladder of pine branches
Is just above my reach.
Hushed
Has graduated to epic
With the decent of night,
Continued heavy snow,
The addition of wind, and, just now
Thunder and lightning.
The radiator sighs and squeals.
Outside is characterized by luminous opacity
The edges of things are running together,
All white, with dim densities indicating forms
The sky, the ground, the air and buildings
Are all bleached and bright.
The only contrast
It is the dark underside of tree branches
Line drawings in formless space.
There is a quiet blizzard
Filling the night,
Covering the tree branches
Outside the window.
It is just as it was a year ago
During Simon’s first week of life.
I remember the magic of falling in love,
The flow of day into night
And into day again,
Silver trains gliding silently by on the bridge.
And the hush that surrounds urgency
Making it seem petty
Against the stillness of snow