Within my gloves,
cold sweat still clings to my fingertips as
do drippings from peeling overripe oranges;
memory slips into a place forgotten
My forearms’ skin,
embossed by tiny, superheated soup bones
left over from a thousand
reminds me that we must court and woo each feast as it presents:
each with a specific atomic and metaphysic weight,
unique like the quantity of snowflakes
held upon each of ten thousand holy, high peaks.
The rhythm of death’s resignation,
in remembrance of the moveable, jocund dust
of countless questing journeys, embraces me within the day’s dance.
In truth, I am the dust on the floor, on tchotchkes, the sacred relics-
dependent on the memory of your reflection in
limpid, rippling water.
Even amongst the redolent odor of
lifeless percentages strewn at your naked feet,
I remember you as indelibly handsome.
among different kinds of snowfall is this:
pausing to spy the black-capped chickadees brave enough to play despite this cold,
my nose is incessantly tickled by tiny flakes
in this blurry month of January
(in which, as a habit, I uncharacteristically wear no shortpants).
That snow is an irksome ally
though it marks some with a blackened spot,
tearing holes in families, nests, and beaver dams.
As some return year after year to push through the dark,
still others thrive.
In January, the depth of which is abundance in hibernation,
causality is very often impenetrable
so that we can learn patience.
That which so few of us recognize as
after all we can do,
is drawn ultimately
toward the same opaque end.
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